


A Royal Fawn

by Dr_Doomsduck



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Character Death Fix, Dark!Dany, F/M, Fix-It, If you are a Dany fan then darling this fic is not for you, Political!Jon, Shireen Lives, season 8 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-11-07 05:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 28
Words: 112,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17954069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Doomsduck/pseuds/Dr_Doomsduck
Summary: Melisandre, her father’s priestess, had once tried to teach her that she should be afraid of the darkness. That it was something that ought to be fought and kept away at all costs. It was the Great Other, she’d whisper, but never quite explained what this Great Other then was. Therefore, all those hushed conversations and veiled threats did very little to impress Shireen.The Red Priestess, however, had not failed to instill fear into her. Not of the dark, or of this nameless, voiceless God, but of a simple wooden pole placed on a small stage.





	1. A Royal Fawn

**Author's Note:**

> A brilliant gifset by Lyanna on Pillowfort inspired me to start writing an AU fic of Shireen being alive. it's mostly based on the series because in the books Shireen is still alive, you bastards. This work is still very much in progress, I've got 18 chapters already posted on Pillowfort and will adding them here throughout the weeks, hopefully finishing by the time Season 8 actually comes out. Like I said in the tags, this is probably not a fic for the Dany fans amongst us, because it does delve into Political Jon and her darker side. So, if you're not into that, maybe skip this one. If you are though, welcome and enjoy your read! 
> 
> And also, because I'm an old fashioned bitch, I will state that no, I'm still not making money of this jazz. Haven't quit my day job yet.

Melisandre, her father’s priestess, had once tried to teach her that she should be afraid of the darkness. That it was something that ought to be fought and kept away at all costs. It was the Great Other, she’d whisper, but never quite explained what this Great Other then was. Therefore, all those hushed conversations and veiled threats did very little to impress Shireen.

The Red Priestess, however, had not failed to instill fear into her.

Not of the dark, or of this nameless, voiceless God, but of a simple wooden pole placed on a small stage.

She’d seen what it did to the Wildling King, or rather, she hadn’t wanted to see, had chosen to close her eyes and face the darkness instead.

Oh, how she wishes she could go back to that day, to tell herself of what’s to come. To make herself understand that destiny means fate and that fate means death and that death is more gruesome than she’d ever thought possible.

The Wildling King Mance Rayder had been shot.

There is no such mercy for the Princess Shireen of House Baratheon.

It is in that moment that she finally knows true fear.

It’s in the shape of the flames.

It’s in the smoke crawling through her throat.

It’s in realizing that her parents have abandoned her, truly and completely.

It’s in the searing, screeching pain in her legs, at her chest and at her arms. It’s everywhere. Climbing up her body and laying to waste everything in its path. She screams like she’s never screamed before, but there’s no-one willing to help her. They’re just looking at the fire, the bright orange and yellow reflecting in their eyes.

The Red Priestess stares at her without respite and after a while, when the smoke has clawed at her lungs and the world is starting to spin on her pain alone, Shireen realizes she’s not the one who’s burning. It’s Melisandre who’s got fire in her eyes, fire on her mind and fire in her heart. The flames are consuming her, not Shireen.

She’d had once tried to teach her that there was evil in darkness, but when it finally comes, Shireen isn’t afraid of it, she welcomes it gladly.

Funny enough, she’d always figured that death would be a bit like falling asleep, or being asleep.

Death, like fear, is something Shireen clearly didn’t know much about.

Because it’s not like falling asleep at all. It’s not like anything, really. The only thing she can think to compare it to is one certain day a few years ago when she’d fell from the rocks on Dragonstone and straight into the tempestuous water below.

She’d spluttered and kicked against the current, had tried to find her way back up, but had been pulled into the deep all the same. There’d been darkness then too, only for a moment, just before her father and Ser Davos had dragged her up and out of the water.

She’d nearly drowned, or so they told her.

It’d been a sight better than burning, though. That’s for sure.

The darkness pulls at her now, though. Pulling her under again. However, Shireen doesn’t have it in her to kick and fight now. She doesn’t want to, because her father won’t come to save her and neither will Ser Davos.

A part of her is glad that the Onion Knight wasn’t there to see her burn, because in her heart she hopes that he at least would do something to save her, and that, she knows, would surely mean his death as well.

But, she realizes with a shock, someone is here. Now. Dragging her upwards.

A small and slender hand, with greenish skin. Not at all like the strong arms of her father and Ser Davos. It lifts her easily, though. Not quite out of the darkness, not yet, but heading somewhere certainly.

The hand becomes an arm and then turns into a figure. A girl, not unlike herself, as far as Shireen can tell.

She has unusual eyes, though. Large, expressive, oddly coloured and above anything else, ancient. They stare into Shireen, or whatever’s left of her, anyway. Smiling. Curious. The hand that had just pulled her from her path downward is now gently skating over her cheek.

Her left cheek. Where the greyscale used to live.

Not many people have ever willingly touched it.

But the girl seems unfettered by her affliction. She simply smiles at Shireen, turns around and motions her to follow her down the blackness that suddenly feels like solid ground beneath her feet.

It’s easy then, to run after her, to find her new friend and to forget all about the fires that she’s no doubt left behind her.

Sure enough, with every step, the heat seems to be subsiding. It doesn’t take long before Shireen can feel herself shivering, her breath floating out of the dark like little puffs of mist. It’s not very comfortable anymore either, and for a brief moment, she remembers the Red Priestess and her talk of the Great Other. The dark, the cold; all enemies of the living.

Perhaps there’s something to it, after all, but then, if it were, why is the murkiness of her surroundings receding? Why is there light now? Pale, cold light without pain. Nothing like the flames.

“Hello?” She tries out the word on her tongue, to call the strange girl back to her

But it’s to no avail.

She’s no longer there.

There’s a cold wind blowing past Shireen and a clear blue sky is staring down at her. The darkness is gone, seemingly alongside her friend.

“Is anyone here?” Her voice sounds hoarse, like…well, like she’s been screaming. Has she been here before? Is this where they…where Melisandre tried to…

Shireen turns around, trying to get her bearing and nearly runs headlong into a large tree.

It’s not an ordinary tree either.

It’s white, with a red cover of leaves and a face carved into it.

A face that’s staring at her. Smiling almost. Like the girl was.

“Hello.” Shireen tells it, slowly running her hand over its left cheek.

“Hello.” It echoes back at her, creeping into her mind, taking her eyes away from her. To the far south, where a burning sea is hidden underneath a million wandering feet, and then a little to the north, where there are dragons. Two of them, dancing around each other. Next, it flies her further still, over the wall, far away, where there is nothing but the freezing cold and a presence that has no name and no voice but an army of bodies instead. Not people. Not dragons. Not giants. Just…what’s left of them. Just bodies.

She doesn’t want to look there.

Certainly doesn’t want it to stare back at her.

So, the eyes take her elsewhere, towards a den of wolves. One that looks warm and inviting. She thinks she might know where it is. Knows the road from here to there.

It’s not very far.

There’s not even any snow.

She could easily walk there.

Her fingers glide free from the rough bark, bringing her back to the here and now.

“To the wolves, then.” Shireen huffs, not sure whether to fear the path ahead or embrace it for what it evidently is. Though whatever it may be, it cannot be worse than a wooden pole and the flames licking up at her.

* * *

Sansa finds herself on the battlements once more. For the third time today. Staring at the sprawling landscape ahead of her. Trying to find something out there. The Others? Jon? Someone else altogether. She doesn’t know. It just…

It feels like an odd sort of moment in-between. There’s a storm coming. More than one, actually. From the north. From the south. And the seven Gods alone might know who or what Jon is bringing back with him.

“Up here again?” Arya’s voice breaks through her thoughts.

“I suppose so.” Sansa smiles. There’s a familiarity to it again. Thankfully. After the deception, the threats, the confusion, it finally feels like she has a piece of her sister back with her. Not the whole of the Arya she knew, but pieces are all they both are now, so it fits quite perfectly if you think about it.

“It’s the rain. -” She tells her. “- That’s why you’re up here. It’s far too cold for rain right now. And yet…”

And yet there are fat drops of water falling from the sky. There’s no snow. No blizzard.

Just the rain.

“What do you think it means?” Arya seems to know more about these sorts of strange happenings than Sansa does. Although, maybe they’re both better off asking Bran about this. That is, if he doesn’t give them riddles in return.

“Perhaps spring is coming?” her sister has that very particular smirk on her face. The one she used to have when teasing Sansa as a child.

“Tsk. Taking our words in jest now?” There’s no bite in her tone. Not anymore. Not since they took care of Littlefinger. Sansa takes one last look at the world beyond the battlements and turns away, towards the innards of Winterfell.

Arya turns with her as one, and shrugs, smile only growing wider at her own joke.

Once they’ve climbed down the steps to the courtyard, Sansa can hear the soft clicking of claws on the cold ground behind her.

Jon might have named him Ghost, but to Sansa, he’s the palest shadow she’s ever had. She’s not quite sure if the beast does this of his own volition or if Jon has asked him to do it, but at this point it’s harder to get away from Ghost then it is to find him.

The only time he truly disappears is for about half an hour in de depth of night, when everyone else is sleeping.

Sansa has started calling it his midnight patrol in her mind, because as far as she can tell (and yes, she has followed him around on occasion as well), Ghost simply makes a quick round past the bedrooms and then heads to the crypts. He starts in hers, because that’s where he ends up every day without fail. Then, he moves to Arya’s room, sticking his nose through the door and peaking in. which, Sansa’s sure her sister knows he’s there, but has firmly decided to ignore this weird behaviour. There has been a lot of weird behaviour in Winterfell as of late, least of which her own.

After that, he moves on to Bran’s room. Sticking his nose in again, but Bran probably wouldn’t notice if the entire king’s court and his jesters did a dance around his room, so the silent Ghost doesn’t make much of an impression either way.

Once that done, he wanders onward, skipping Jon’s room altogether; he knows his master isn’t there. No, instead he turns to the rooms that are filled with their friends and allies. Brienne, Podrick, Sam and Gilly, the bannermen of the north and the vale. Whoever is staying. He doesn’t try to open those doors, and instead sniffs briefly at the gap between the floor and door.

She’s been told that Ghost can tell the difference between the living and the wights, so perhaps he’s merely making sure there’s nothing there that shouldn’t be.

Either way, once he’s done with the living, Ghost trots down into the cold to visit the crypts. He looks for father, for Rickon, for the empty graves of Robb and mother and then, once he’s done, he returns to her bedroom, comforted by the knowledge that everything is safe and sound.

As of late, he’s even gotten enough cheek to hop on the foot-end of the bed and sleep there, rather than by the fire.

She’s tried interrupting the patrol, just to see what might happen, but whenever she calls out his name at these odd hours, he simply stares at her like he’s got no idea what she’s on about. Like Sansa’s got the wrong name and he’d rather be called something else instead.

As for what that might be? She’s left clueless.

Still, it feels good to have him with her. The sheer bulk of him ever present behind her. She wonders if Lady would’ve grown to the size of him. Arya tells her that he’s bigger than Nymeria was the last time she saw her. When Sansa lets her mind wander back to the unseemly image of Shaggydog’s head when it was ‘gifted’ to them by…by that Bolton Bastard, she can sort of measure that Ghost is bigger than that as well.

She’s got no idea how big Summer and Grey Wind had gotten before they died, but the Free Folk tell her that Ghost is unusually large for his kind. So, it stands to reason that he’d outgrown them as well.

Sansa finds herself pausing in her step, waiting for the direwolf to catch up to her, so she can run her hand through his fur.

To think, he used to be the runt of the litter. Second smallest pup aside from Lady.

“Come along, then, my Lord.” She mutters, amusing herself with an attempt of symmetry.

He’s not hers. Certainly not. But a part of her belongs to him, regardless. She’s a Stark, and all Starks belong to the direwolves, one way or another.

Aside from that, it’s important to note that between Arya, Ghost and Brienne, Sansa has never felt safer in her life. Now, if only Jon could find his way back home. Then perhaps the Great Hall would feel like its properly filled again.

She sighs and takes her seat at the table. Bran is already there, but Arya, having safely delivered her sister here, doesn’t linger. She merely pats Bran’s shoulder and heads out again.

Towards the sparring field, no doubt. Because while Brienne might feel the obligation to stay with her lady, Arya takes the pragmatic approach and trains men, women and children to wield a weapon in the face of winter.

So, Sansa is left to deal with the legislative reality of their situation. That’s her job, as per Jon’s instructions.

And to be frank, having a recalcitrant Arya mouthing off at the bannermen is, while humorous, about as conducive as handing Sansa a sword and telling her to fight off the Others by herself.

Still, when they’re three hours into a petty argument between the Cerwyns and the Glovers, Sansa quietly wishes that perhaps she’d honed a different sort of talent. Or at least learned her father’s kind bluntness to shut these men up.

Rescue from the hopeless stalemate comes in the form of Sam. He may have been Jon’s friend in the Night’s Watch, but Sansa can already see the shape of a new Maester in him. Since the occupation has been left empty, it would be fortuitous to have him fill this seat in Winterfell again.

“My Lady, there’s…-” With the bannermen staring at him, Sam seems unsure of his place here. Still, he bravely presses on “- There’s a girl at the gates. She’s…well, she’s a princess actually, so I think you might want to deal with this. Or. Grace her with your presence, I suppose.”

“A princess, you say? Why, that sounds truly important. Wouldn’t you agree?” She raises an eyebrow at the lords in her presence.

And there! There it is! Both Glover and Cerwyn are taken aback by her manner. They know they’ve gone too far. At last. They’ve kept her from her duties for far too long and they realize it now. With a nod and a few mutters, Sansa’s free to move about once more and lets Sam lead her out of the Great Hall, towards the South Gate.

“So then, Sam, tell me who it actually is that’s visiting us?” Because ever since the death of Myrcella, the Seven Kingdoms have been rather short on princesses.

“I’m not entirely sure. -” He hums. “-Because I’d heard, or you know, Jon told me, that Stannis had burned his daughter alive. But -”

They arrive at the South Gate, where a pair of guards are carefully maintaining their distance to a young girl.

“Stay back, M’lady. This one’s ill and you don’t want to have what she’s got.”

“I’m cured. -” The girl replies. “- It just looks rather odd, is all.”

“- But here she is.” Sansa finishes Sam’s notion, because there are very few people in the North who have been afflicted with greyscale and even less who can claim that they have been cured of it.

It seems that Winterfell is truly becoming a gathering place for the odd and out of sorts.


	2. A Den of Wolves

“I’m _cured._ It just looks rather odd, is all.” Shireen tries telling the unkind man at the gate for what feels like the umpteenth time.  They won’t let her pass. Probably would’ve thrown her out altogether if it wasn’t for Samwell Tarly and the sheer dumb luck that he’d been in the courtyard when she’d arrived.

He’d been her favourite of the Night’s Watch brothers, because he was terribly kind to her when they’d been staying at Castle Black. She likes his wife even more, though. Gilly had treated her like an equal, like she’d been worthy of her time. That, more than anything, had convinced Shireen that she wouldn’t be hurt in her presence, regardless of her mother’s warnings.

_“You have no idea what people will do.”_

It’s just a whisper of her voice, in the back of Shireen’s mind.

_And isn’t that quite a truth, mother? I had no idea what you’d do to me. What you were capable of._

She ignores the whisper in favour of the real people in front of her. Gilly isn’t there, but Sam had sped off to find an authority that might help her gain entrance to Winterfell.

Because the den of wolves she’d sought had been Winterfell. Which, she hadn’t realized that it was until she’d been standing at the gates. Had seen the Stark Sigil hanging from the walls.

For the briefest of moments, she’d feared…or maybe hoped…that her father had managed to retake the keep and had gifted it to Jon Snow.

But it isn’t her father that Sam went to get and it isn’t Jon Snow either.

It’s the _Lady of Winterfell._

She’d heard of Sansa Stark before, but only in terms of what she’d meant to others. To the Lannisters, to the Boltons, to the Tyrells and of course to the Tullys and to the Starks. She was spoken of as a pawn, as someone to pity or to steal away before anyone else could.

None of those stories spoke of a tall and stately woman with hair so red that it might rival Melisandre’s. The furs she’s wearing make a lot of sense for the weather, but they also make her as broad and as intimidating as a commander of the Night’s Watch.

Shireen’s mind drifts once more back to her mother and within an instance she’s sure that this woman before her would draw mother’s ire. Too pretty, too young, too important and too threatening to her position.

Lady Stark curtseys and casts a worried glance at Shireen’s dress.

“Come then, your Grace, we’d best get you inside and out of the cold.”

Shireen decides that she likes her already.

Lord Snow himself might not be present as far as she can tell, but his direwolf most certainly is. The great white beast stands to wait behind the gates and stares at her. It turns its head to one side, giving a silent voice to its confusion. Like it can’t quite figure out who Shireen is and how on earth she got to Winterfell.

She shares its sentiment.

“Hello Shireen.” Sam murmurs softly as they make their way through the courtyard.

“Hi Sam.” She smiles up at him.

“Where’ve you been, then?” There’s only curiosity in his voice, none of the hostility the guards had given her.

“Not anywhere, as far as I can tell.”

“That’s…you know what? That’s actually right on par with the last few years.” There’s a sigh that becomes visible in the freezing air.

They don’t lead her to a throne room or a hall or anything. Instead, she’s led to some of the more private quarters in the keep at the back of the grounds.

It’s not Lady Stark’s bedroom, Shireen doesn’t think, but rather a private study of sorts.

“Sit down, please.” Lady Stark motions to a soft chair near the hearth and starts instructing servants directly afterwards. Behind her, another woman enters the room. She’s short and can’t be much older than Shireen herself, but she’s wearing men’s clothes and has a sword strapped to her side. One that’s surely as sharp as the look on her face.

Lady Stark takes a seat across from Shireen, while the sword-bearing girl silently prowls behind her like a curious cat.

“There. Much better. -” She folds her hands over her lap. “- I do apologize, princess Shireen, we weren’t expecting your company, and our men are rather quick to suspect in these dire times.”

“That’s quite alright. I wasn’t expecting my company either.” In fact, she wasn’t expecting much at all after they dragged her to the pyre.

“How’d you get here?” The girl behind Lady Stark asks.

“I walked.” It’s true enough.

“From _where_ exactly _?_ They burned you alive.” She deadpans.

“Arya, please!” Lady Stark snaps and oh, this must be the second Stark sister then. Almost as much back from the dead as Shireen herself is.

She wonders, as everyone had, where Arya has been hiding all this time. The houses may have wanted Sansa Stark, but they surely would’ve sold their souls for the second daughter of Ned Stark as well.

Another woman enters. She’s like Arya, in a way, but much, much larger. Towering over everyone, including Samwell and Lady Stark, while adorned with a heavy sword and an even heavier armour.

Her uncle once employed a knight like that. Or so she’d heard. Truth is, she’d only met Renly Baratheon once or twice in her life. He’d been kind to her from what she remembers, but he hadn’t returned for fear of her greyscale. Cured or not.

And while Shireen stares at the Lady Knight, she finds her staring back at Shireen.

In fact, everyone is staring at her.

Right. They might be expecting an answer of some sort. An answer Shireen’s not sure she can give them.

“I was burned alive. I know I was. But I…someone brought me back.”

“A White Walker?” Lady Arya poses.

“She’d have had the blue eyes if she were. -” Samwell corrects. “- Could’ve been a Red Priest, though.”

“No. No, it wasn’t a Red Priestess.” Shireen adds immediately. Because she knows R’hllor and she knows very well that he did not deem her worthy enough to be saved.

“So, what then?” Arya again.

“I don’t know. All I know is that I was standing next to a heart tree when I came back. It showed me things. I’m not quite sure what.” In fact, the memory of those things seems to have faded with every step she took away from the weirwood.

“Bran?” Lady Stark quietly asks her sister.

“Definitely Bran.” The other Stark nods.

“We’ll deal with that later, then. -” Lady Stark briefly rests her hand on the bridge of her nose. “- for now, we should probably consider your options as they are. Do you have any family you could stay with?”

“My…father and mother? I suppose?” Not that she really wants to go back to them, but no-one else comes quite to mind. Ser Davos might take her in, but she doesn’t know where he is, or if he’s still in her father’s employ.

The room becomes deathly silent at her words. Samwell, Lady Stark, Lady Arya Stark and even the lady knight; they are all giving her the oddest of looks.

“Princess Shireen. I am sorry to have to tell you this, but you’ve been gone for quite some time and a lot of things have changed since then.” Lady Stark’s voice is ever so gentle and something like dread begins to grow in the pit of Shireen’s stomach.

“Your mother. I was told that she could not handle the loss of you and...and took her own life.” The words sound hollow, and Shireen can’t phantom any regret her mother may have felt. She’d easily condoned the burning of countless others, had constantly wished for a healthy son instead of a sickly daughter. Had allowed Melisandre to wrap her claws around Shireen without so much as a complaint.

But she died of her own regret over it all?

It doesn’t fit. It doesn’t seem right. Or perhaps that isn’t it. Perhaps the fire they put her on burned more than Shireen could see. Perhaps it turned the love she held for her parents to ash.

“A-and my father?” She whispers, willing for something like pain to grab a hold of her.

Lady Stark hesitates before answering, and quiets completely when her knight briefly lays a hand on her shoulder.

The large woman then moves towards Shireen and bends the knee so that she might look her in the eyes.

“Your father killed my king, his brother, with blood magic. I swore vengeance upon him and...and I’ve since paid him his dues. Your father is dead, Lady Shireen, and he was struck down by my hand.”

“When did he die?” she finds herself asking.

“He tried to chase the Boltons from Winterfell and lost. I found him alone in the forest there.”

Not long after he’d allowed Melisandre to sacrifice her, then.

She sighs, trying to feel something other than the void of it. The numbness. A part of her wants to cry, wants to mourn the man who she knew loved her but the rest of her?

The rest of her seems to lack the capacity.

“That must’ve been his destiny, then.” Is what she tells the knight instead, because destiny means fate and fate means death and death is a gruesome affair indeed.

“I don’t think I believe in destiny.” The knight replies.

“You shouldn’t, because it isn’t a very nice thing at all.”

* * *

They leave the Princess Shireen in the private study once Sansa’s sure that the maids found her a suitable dress to wear and a hot mug of milk to drink. Against reason and sensibility, Brienne asked if she could stay with the girl for the rest of the day. To watch over her. To talk.

It’s an odd request, considering Brienne’s history with the girl’s father. But perhaps it makes some sort of sense, because Brienne had pledged her loyalties to the Baratheons (or one of them, at least) long before she came to Sansa.

Overall though, Sansa can’t think to complain. It’s as good a way as any to keep an eye on the girl and she trusts Brienne to spot trouble early enough to nip it in the bud. Besides that, she has neither the time nor the capability to figure out what exactly Shireen is right now.

Which is why, Sansa thinks, it’s about time she had a good, long talk with her siblings.

Again.

This time though, she’ll happily invite her ‘maester’ Tarly to the discussion.

“I don’t suppose you might know if…” She turns to Arya, who’s currently walking next to her.

“I might know if…?” Her sister raises an eyebrow.

“If the girl in there is like you. With the faces.” It’s still hard to talk about this very ephemeral quality that Arya possesses and that Sansa understands nothing of.

“She’s not one of the faceless men. If she were, she’d have more convincing lies to tell us. -” Arya starts and Sansa let’s out a breath she wasn’t even aware of holding.

“- If she had been, though, it would have been wise to not outright _yell_ my name in her presence.”

“I wouldn’t have had to, if you hadn’t callously brought up the fact that Shireen Baratheon was burned by her own family.” Some days her sister is no different from the girl that travelled with her to King’s landing.  On those days, Sansa still struggles against the petty child of yesteryear that lives inside of her too.

“It was a good way to find out how much she knew and if she was tricking us.” Arya replies.

“And now that she’s not, we’re left with even more questions, because if she’s not a wight, not resurrected and not a faceless man, or woman, then what is she?” She groans.

“Don’t look at me, I’m no more a maester of mysticism than you are.” Her sister snorts.

“With all due respect, Lady Stark -” Sam catches up them and earns a glare from Arya. “- _You_ might not be well-versed in matters of mysticism, but your brother surely is.”

“Which is why we’re heading to see him now. I would very much appreciate it if you could join us, Ser Tarly.”

Sam seems mildly surprised by that, like he’s still doesn’t believe he has much to offer. The opposite is true, really. He’s just about the only one who can translate what Bran says into useful, understandable language.

Oh, she’d made do when creating the ploy to trap Littlefinger, but even that had been a matter of grasping at straws. That’s why, when they arrive at Bran’s room, Sansa takes a moment to breathe in deeply. Preparing herself for whatever odd or disturbing matters her brother might have to tell them.

Sure enough, she’s barely opened the door when she hears his monotonous voice call out to her.

“Sansa. Arya.” He doesn’t address Sam. Maybe because he’s too far gone to notice the man’s presence, or perhaps simply because Samwell isn’t keen on standing out and Bran knows it on some level. 

“Hello Bran. -” She starts. “- I suppose you already know why we’re here.”

“A lost doe has made her way home.” Which, alright, sure, it’s easy enough to understand. Baratheon. Deers. Sansa can do this.

“Yes. That.” Her lips form to an uneasy sort of smile.

“There were whispers on the wind. The surviving Children spoke of deep roots reaching upwards.”

See, and that’s where she always loses him.

“Which children?” Arya asks.

“I think he means the Children of the Forest?” Samwell looks to Bran for confirmation, but seemingly receives nothing aside from a blank stare.

“Those aren’t real. -” Sansa looks to her sister. “- Are they?”

“Well, the White Walkers are _._ ” Arya scrunches up her nose.

“Aye, I can attest to that.” Sam turns an uncomfortable shade of white.

Dragons are back. White Walkers exist. There are faceless men going around Westeros murdering people and now the Children of the Forest are alive. _Somewhere._

If someone had told thirteen-year-old Sansa that it’s _these_ stories that are true, rather than those of knights and heroes, she’d probably have laughed in their faces.

“Do these…Children…whisper about how Shireen Baratheon came back to life after she was murdered?”

“She wasn’t murdered.” Bran tells them.

“Oh?” This seems to catch the attention of Arya.

“She was sacrificed.”

“Oh.” Her sister deadpans, interest gone once more.

“Right. My apologies. She was _sacrificed._ ” Sansa adds.

“The snow. It was too much and too thick. A storm not even the Prince that was Promised could weather. Stannis Baratheon asked the Red God to hear his pleas and believed they would be listened to.”

“So, he tied his only child to a stake and put a torch to it.” Arya snarls.

 “He didn’t. The Red Priestess did.” Bran turns his head to look her dead in the eyes.

“Like it makes a difference.” She scoffs, a small act of rebellion against her brother’s infinite serenity.

Which Sansa can empathize with, because they’ve still got no clue as to what in the seven hells happened exactly.

“The Baratheon girl burned and the snow melted.” Is what Bran tells them instead.

“So, it was the Red God after all?” Samwell asks.

“A Lord of Light cannot wield the darkness itself. A being made of fire cannot stop a torrent of ice. She was sacrificed to the wrong God.”

“Then how _did_ the snow melt?” It’s getting stranger and stranger with every word he utters.

“A death of one is not a death of all. A doe burns and her ashes seep into the ground, feeding the white roots beneath the snow. A slumbering god awakens.”

“The heart tree…-” Samwell murmurs. “- So, not the Others, not the Red God but what you’re saying is that it’s the _Old Gods_ that brought her back _._ ”

“It ends winter. It melts snow. It brings back life.” Bran explains.

And this? This is one riddle that Sansa herself can solve.

“Spring. You’re talking about spring.”

“Shireen Baratheon was no gift to the Red God. She was the first seed of spring to be sowed.” Her brother agrees.

Which is…Well, Sansa lost most of her faith somewhere between being handed from Cersei to Littlefinger to Ramsay, but if those old solemn trees are also going to be bringing back people from the dead, then at the very least they’ve made a convincing argument.


	3. A Return of the Lost

Lady Stark has a great many dresses, Shireen decides, and a whole host of them don’t appear to fit her anymore. Because she’s been giving them away to anyone who might be able to use them; Gilly, Shireen, the women in and around Winterfell, the Free Folk. Anyone.

It doesn’t seem to bother her much to have the common folk dressed above their station. When Shireen had asked her about it, she had merely shrugged and told her that she’d rather they were dressed too well instead of freezing.

Still, there’s a difference between the dresses she gives to the common folk and those she gives to Gilly and Shireen. For one, Gilly seems to have had the first pick, because she’s wearing the dresses that look particularly snug and warm. They’re not the most decorated or the brightly coloured ones, but they are very utilitarian; Simple browns or beige, with no southern laces to get in the way of movement.

And while the dresses Lady Stark gifted to Shireen are not of unnecessary complexity either, they certainly stand out more than Gilly’s do.

In that they’re _all_ black.

Shireen’s quite sure a lot of them were made for mourning. Not entirely inappropriate, she supposes, but the deaths of her parents are not…

She’s not…

Well, she hasn’t quite figured out how to work her way through that.

_Ashes. There’s nothing left but ashes._

Whatever the case, Lady Stark profusely apologized for their former function and offered her an entire chest filled with yellow sashes, ribbons, cloaks and skirts to compliment the dresses. There’s even a few necklaces, bracelets and belts in the chest. They’re made of gold and are embellished with several stag-symbols _._ Gifts from her uncle to the North, or so she tells Shireen.

Arya however, remarked that the old king had meant for the jewellery to be placed by the Crypt of Lyanna Stark, but that for some reason, Lord Eddard Stark had never done so.

It’s odd and more than slightly disconcerting. Which is why Shireen has left those pieces at the bottom of the chest where she first found them. The sashes, ribbons, cloaks and skirts though, she’s worn constantly for the past three days.

Black and yellow.

The colours of _her House._

Her parents had never allowed her to wear those. Or hadn’t seen the use of it, since Shireen was always confined indoors. However, since she’s apparently the very last of the Baratheons, Lady Stark had told her that if there were ever a moment to keep her lineage close to her, it would be now.

Shireen is happy to never argue with her over that reasoning.

For the first time, she feels like an _actual_ part of her own family. An heir to the legacy of her uncles and father; the king and the kings-that-would-be. They may not have wanted her, but she’s the only piece of them that will live on.

The dress she’s wearing today is, of course, black as well, but the yellow is already woven into it, a feat of Lady Stark’s excellent sowing. She’d made it for Shireen’s cousin Myrcella in honour of her visit to Winterfell, but had been too intimidated by the southern style of dress to actually give it to her.

Shireen’s not really sure why, because Sansa has better stitching techniques than anyone she’s ever met. It’s an enviable trait, especially right now, when they’re sitting by the fire, mending clothes for the people of Winterfell.

“Oh, bollocks. This looks terrible.” Gilly moans, holding up the shirt she’d been working on but staring at the one in Sansa’s lap instead.

“Nonsense. -” Sansa lets her hand run over the stitches. “- Sure, you might not be chosen as a seamstress for the queen in King’s Landing, but it’ll last a great deal longer in winter than any exquisite dress would. I can tell you that much.”

“Can you show me how to do that?” Shireen asks Gilly, because she’s never been great at embroidery and because the sowing of the Free Folk is nothing if not sturdy and efficient.

“What, you really want to know?” There’s a blush on her cheeks that make her look quite comely.

“Of course.” She nods. It’ll be good to be the one learning for a change, rather than teaching.

Gilly gives her a wide smile and quickly starts taking her through the basics.

It’s not an easy stitch by any means and even after two hours of practice, Shireen only has a handful of properly done seams. However, it is at that point that the other Lady Stark, or no, Arya has specifically asked Shireen not to call her that, enters the hall. She’s carrying a rather large, flat package with her, wrapped in rough linen.

“Where’d you get that?” Sansa asks, standing up even as her sister lays the package on the nearest table.

“Rider from White Harbor. Insisted that this was for you. A gift from Wyman Manderly, he said.” Arya doesn’t wait for Sansa’s approval and has already started unpacking it.

“A gift? Why would he be sending a gift rather than men or food?” There’s a disgruntled note in Sansa’s voice. Her displeasure, however, is apparently no match for her curiosity, because she immediately starts helping Arya unpack it.

It’s a painting. That much she can tell from the wooden frame, but from her place by the fire, Shireen can only see the back. The front is visible to Arya and Sansa, who are holding it up to admire it.

“What is it?” Gilly asks.

“It’s ugly.” Arya tells her.

Alright, maybe they’re not admiring it per se.

Still, Shireen would really like to decide how ghastly it is on her own. So, she puts down the pair of pants she’d been working on and gets up, motioning a puzzled Gilly to follow her. Who then in turn picks up her young son from where he’d been playing on the furs before joining the Starks as well.  

And that’s how the five of them end up staring at a blurred representation of a snowed landscape at night. Shireen silently disagrees with Arya: The painting is not ugly exactly, whoever made it knows plenty about colours and has seen enough landscapes to draw a realistic vision of it.

It _is_ sloppy, though.

The paint looks as if it’s barely dry and is smudged in several places. Furthermore, there’s a dragon and a wolf, one up in the air, the other front and centre howling at the moon. They feel like an afterthought; two hastily added elements that look out of place and unfinished. The wolf, for example, lacks an eye and has no shading to speak of. It is little more than a white blob in the middle of a landscape.

“This means something. -” Sansa hums. “- Lord Manderly wouldn’t have sent something like this without a reason.”

“Are you sure it’s not just because he’s a fat old man who likes to paint? Because as I recall, he _is_ a fat old man who likes to paint.” Arya again.

“He is. He’s also survived the Boltons and the Lannisters without so much as a scratch and without caving in to their demands. So, what he is, aside from fat and old, is incredibly shrewd.”

“Is that a dragon?” Gilly points at the dark reddish shape at the left corner of the painting.

“Yes, it is.” Shireen replies, even though the creature has no feet and is little more than an S-shaped squiggle with wings.

“Didn’t you say that Lord Snow wrote about a dragon lady?” Gilly looks at Sansa.

“He is. We’re in an alliance with her now.” The Lady of Winterfell sounds decidedly less than pleased about that.

“And doesn’t that wolf look like Ghost?” She touches the blob on the canvas, and her finger comes back white from the badly mixed pigment.

“It…does. It really does.” Sansa stutters.

“Seven hells, the fat old man painted Jon and the Targaryen!” Arya is staring at the painting with a newfound appreciation.

“That’s what he’s telling us! They’ve arrived at White Harbor! He didn’t send a raven because messages can be read by everyone and a warning to us beforehand would look suspect.” Sansa nearly drops her side of the canvas in sheer enthusiasm.

“But no-one would bat an eye at an ugly painting sent by a fat old man who simply likes to paint.” There’s smirk on Arya’s face now.   

Shireen lets her gaze roam over the picture in front of her, looking at it in a different way. There might be more. There’s so much one can hide in a landscape. Lord Manderly would’ve had to finish his painting quickly, so it might be sent away as soon as possible. It certainly explains why the wolf and dragon look the way they do. The trees, the ground and the night sky all look fairly detailed, fairly finished, there’s just…

The moon.

It’s a completely white disc in the sky. No shading, no details, just like the wolf. This was added at the very last moment. Furthermore, if Lord Manderly had wanted to finish the painting properly, he’d have used a full or a crescent moon to make it look good.

The moon in the painting is very obviously a waxing gibbous one.

“The moon! -” She shouts, having figured it out. “- Look at the moon! Yesterday, it was hanging in the sky at full quarter. That means in six days, it’ll look exactly like the moon in the painting.”

“Yes! That’s amazing. Lord Manderly must be stalling them. He’s keeping them there so we’ll have time to prepare.” Sansa agrees, eyes rich with jubilation.

“Six days. -” Arya nods. “- Jon will be home in six days.”

* * *

 

The pristine snow makes creaking noises beneath their feet as they wander through the godswood. They could’ve arrived at the heart tree half an hour ago, had Sansa wanted them to, but she’s trying to gently break the truth to Shireen.

It’s important.

Especially now.

Especially with what’s coming.

“So, you’re saying the tree is what brought me back?” Shireen asks, leaving Sansa to feel once more like she’s woefully unprepared to explain this.

“Well, I suppose not so much the tree as the gods speaking through it.” Which is more of an estimation than it is a law.

“That’s awfully nice of them, then. Do you know why they’d bring me back?” They’ve arrived at the heart tree now, and neither Sansa nor Shireen can’t stop themselves from staring at the grieving face carved into it.

“It’s to do with spring. Or so Bran said. Perhaps you’re needed then?”

“I am? For what?”

And this is why, despite the fact that there’s an army of wights waiting just beyond the wall, Sansa is glad that Lord Manderly has stalled the dragon queen. Oh, she wants Jon to come home, but she simply can’t juggle her duty to Winterfell as well as the complexity of Shireen Baratheon’s presence alongside _three dragons_ and their supposed mother.

It’s too much. She needs to know what she’s getting into, she needs to know how to handle a giant fire-spitting monster before facing one, she needs Shireen to understand the precocious situation she’s in.

Because it is not dissimilar to the one Sansa found herself in up until recently.

“You are the last Baratheon. Which means that through your blood, you are not only a contender for the Iron Throne, but can also claim your right to rule the Stormlands.”

“Oh.” She murmurs.

“Furthermore, because the Tyrell bloodline is extinct, their lands will go to the next branch in the tree of House Gardener. That’s House Florent. Their male heirs died serving the oldest Florent daughter, your lady mother, which means that _her_ inheritance now also falls to you.”

“The Reach…” Slowly but certainly, it seems to dawn on Shireen how the board has been set up to play.

“You are the only trueborn heir to the Crownlands, the Stormlands and the Reach. If someone were able to rally all your bannermen, they’d be able to overthrow Cersei, _easily._ That makes you, for lack of a better word, _the key to the south._ ”

She spits out those last words with a violence from deep within, because she knows that men like Roose Bolton, Tywin Lannister and Petyr Baelish had thought of her as nothing but a key to the kingdoms they desired.

And yet, just as deep, something else stirs. Memories of Margaery, Loras and Olenna. It’s undeniable that the Tyrells saw the _potential_ in a match between Sansa and one of their own, but at the same time, they’d protected her fiercely against the brutality of Joffrey and Cersei.

Olenna had played with Baelish to end Joffrey’s reign and get Sansa out of King’s Landing. Loras, for all his proclivities, had been willing to entertain and _marry_ her regardless. Moreover, Margaery had taken Sansa under her wing when no other Lady had dared to. Had helped her navigate the treacherous waters of court and had showed her nothing but kindness all through it.

Sansa turns to look at Shireen, who is still staring breathlessly at the heart tree.

_Someone ought to do the same for her._

And who else is it meant to be if not Sansa? Because she, of all people, knows the terror of being lost, alone and without a living kin left in the world. It is through miracles alone that she’s now found herself with three siblings again, one of whom seems to have gained an infinite well of wisdom while the other is capable of ending entire Houses as it pleases her and the third is none other than the _king in the North_ himself.

“We’ll have to prepare for what to do when the Targaryen queen arrives.” Sansa lays a gentle hand on Shireen’s shoulder, trying to ignore the rustling of the woods behind them.

“I suppose we do. She wants to rule the seven kingdoms and if I’m up for the throne-” Shireen turns to her, pale faced and wide eyed.

“- We’d best make sure she’ll not get competitive.” The moment she says it, there’s a deep, low rumble coming from the foliage behind them.

She’s heard it before, but only rarely, because her pale shadow is not usually much of a talker.

“Don’t worry, it’s just Ghost.” She tells Shireen, who is altogether quite spooked by the events of the past hour or so.

“So, what are we to do about the dragon queen?” It seems a lot of that Baratheon bravery lives inside its last daughter as well.

“I’ve thought about sending you to one of the bannermen, but they might be tempted to take advantage of your position. -” The noises behind them still haven’t stopped and Sansa wonders what in the name of the gods that silly old wolf is doing in the shrubberies.

“-We could arrange for you to be sent further south, to Samwell Tarly’s family, his mother is a Florent too, but-”

“- that’ll put me far too close to Queen Cersei’s wide grasp.” Shireen is already thinking about the risks. Good. She should, because there’ll be more of those in the future.

“Which not a position I want to put you in under-” Another growl, loud too.

Sansa has just about had it with Jon’s unruly pup.

“Ghost, please!”

The noise stops and there’s more rustling, before the direwolf finally steps out of the bushes.

Except. No. The head is all wrong. It isn’t white, but has a grey colouring around the face. Furthermore, there are teeth. Such a godawful number of teeth, right there on display.

This is _a_ direwolf, that much can be said without question.

It just isn’t the direwolf that Sansa knows.

And the direwolf, likewise, doesn’t seem to harbour warm feelings for her either, snarling and snapping at her as it is.

Sansa’s arm immediately shields the terrified Shireen, while her mind races to come up with a plan for _this_ unforeseen circumstance on top of all the others.

Direwolves living beyond the wall are rare, extremely so. In fact, there have only been a handful of them in the past two-hundred years.

Six, to be exact.

Lady, Ghost, Shaggydog, Grey Wind, Summer and …

“Nymeria.” She breathes ever so carefully, even it only serves to make the wolf growl louder.

“Shireen -” Sansa tells her, but doesn’t dare to take her eyes of Nymeria. “- Shireen, I need you to walk backwards very, very slowly and when you get out of our sight, I want you to run, _as fast as you can,_ back to the keep. To Arya. I want you to tell her that Nymeria is home and that I’d really like her help with this.”

There’s no response.

“Shireen?”

Once more, Sansa is met with silence.

“Shireen? Can you do that for me?” For the love of the gods, she really needs Shireen to answer her question now because if she doesn’t then Sansa is well and truly out of ideas.

“Y-yes.” It’s a tiny peep, but a brave one indeed.

“Good girl.” Sansa tells both Shireen and Nymeria simultaneously.

There’re those soft little cracks from footsteps in the snow. Footsteps moving away. Nymeria, briefly seems interested in what is happening behind Sansa, but that is one problem easily solved.

“Hey, no. Nymeria, I’m over here. Look over here, please.” Her voice is louder than Sansa thought herself capable of in the moment. Sure enough, though, the direwolf’s eyes are on her and her alone again. 

Shireen’s footsteps meanwhile, are growing quicker in the distance. She’s gone then.

It’s just Sansa now.

Sansa, who’s really, thoroughly, had enough of the surprise visits this week.


	4. A Hungry Pack

"Been a while since we last saw each other, hasn't it?" Talking to a ravenous predator is not something Sansa wants to make a habit of, but needs must right now because Nymeria certainly doesn't seem to be going anywhere.

There's another rumble coming from the beast's chest as it takes a step towards her.

"The last time had to have been at the Trident." That day, that one particular day where it all began going wrong.

Sansa's not sure if direwolves have a concept of time, or understand the names of the places they’ve been to, but the very mention of the Trident has Nymeria barking several times in a row.

For a brief moment, she feels the air get caught up in her lungs. But if she doesn't keep talking, if she doesn't keep the direwolf's attention on that...

Who knows what might happen.

"You were so brave there. Did you know that? -" It's a memory that's carved forever in her mind. If only for the events that followed in its aftermath "- Defending Arya and the butcher's boy like you did."

Nymeria is pacing now, short trots from left to right, sizing up her opponent, or her next meal, whichever it is.

"I'm quite sure that Joffrey never got over his fear for you. That blonde-haired monster would torment everyone and everything that got in his way, but I never saw him so much as raise a hand at any dog in King's Landing." It feels like a lifetime ago, and yet every now and then there’s a morning where she wakes up startled, believing herself to be back in the Red Keep.

"Lady shouldn't have died for what happened, but neither should you’ve." In hindsight, though, Sansa has to admit that at least this way, one of their direwolves had lived. If both of them had come to King's landing, then they would've surely perished alongside her father.

The words, true though they might be, seem to have no effect on Nymeria.

She wonders, briefly, if there are other wolves wandering around the godswood. Because if one direwolf got in unseen, then who knows what else might've? And if there are, well then, Shireen’s stay with them will be very short indeed.

But now is not the time for doubt, now is not the time to despair. Now, it's the time to stall, to talk to Nymeria in the hopes that she might remember something of Sansa and that it will stop her from attacking outright.

And so she talks and she talks and she talks. About everything and anything, maintaining a low and kind voice through it all. Their 'conversation' lasts for what feels like an eternity. The outcome ever hanging in a precocious balance, veering wildly from a calm Nymeria to a very dead Sansa.

_And what a story that would make? A Stark eaten by a direwolf in her own home. The bards would never cease to write embarrassing songs about me._

Those lyrical masterpieces, however, will not be cast into existence yet, because salvation comes and it comes in the form of another wolf.

Or rather, two of them.

There's barely a sound before Ghost's white form jumps in front of Sansa, showing every bit as much teeth as Nymeria, but aiming them at his sister instead. There's no growling or rumbling from him. He is as quiet as he's always been, but no less intimidating for it.

And judging by the way she's tucked her tail between her legs, Nymeria seems to agree.

The second wolf to arrive at the scene is Sansa’s sibling, quick, nimble and sharper than any fang will ever be.

"Gods, she really wasn't lying, was she?" Arya asks, while Nymeria and Ghost begin to circle around one another.

"No, I’m afraid not."

"Nymeria!" That one word does more than the entirety of Sansa's speech. Everything about Nymeria seems to change; her ears perk up, the wrinkles disappear from her snout and her eyes soften at the sight of her former owner.

Ghost likewise, makes note of the changes and carefully trots back to Sansa, big body leaning against her.

"Hello girl, I thought we'd agreed this wasn't the life for you?" There's not a hint of apprehension in Arya. In fact, Sansa would say she's ever so close to walking up and petting her like the days of old.

She’s better off not doing that, though, because her words seem to snap the direwolf out of its trance and turn it back into the snarling heap of rage it was before.

“Something’s wrong.” Arya takes a step backwards.

“You don’t say?!” Sansa replies, staring at the frothing beast in front of them.

Behind her, more people begin to accumulate. Brienne, Samwell as well as several knights appear from the treeline, followed by a tiny red-faced Baratheon.

_Thank the Old Gods and the New ones for that little girl._

“No, I mean, she’s not doing alright. She’s…she’s ill or something.” Arya hasn’t looked away from Nymeria, while Nymeria, likewise, hasn’t had eyes for anything else since they started this odd way of dancing around one another.

“How can you tell?” It’s Brienne, who hasn’t unsheathed Oathkeeper yet, but is ever at the ready to do so. 

“Just look at her! She’s swaying on her feet, she’s bloated, her fur is matted and her eyes are dull.” And yes, those are all accurate observations but Sansa’s very sure that that’s not how Arya figured it out.

She simply _knows_ it.

Like they all did with their wolves.

“I agree, that doesn’t look great.” Samwell adds.

“So, ‘maester’, what do you suppose we do, then?” Arya growls.

“Well, an examination would be in order. -” It’s only once the answer’s out of his mouth that Sam seems to realize who’s the most likely candidate for that particular job. “- Oh, lord. Surely you don’t mean…It’ll likely eat _me_ first.”

“You let us worry about that.” Her sister takes another step forward, holding out a hand to her old companion.

Nymeria in return, barks several more times and growls so gut-wrenchingly loud that it sets off her brother instead.

Ghost promptly abandons his position at Sansa’s side and sprints up to her. Nymeria, seemingly confused by her own behaviour, snaps at him. Her teeth are sinking into white fur, but the retaliation is immediate: a fierce bite, jaws locked around her shoulder. Ghost shakes his head, never letting go of her, no doubt drawing blood as well.

If he keeps this up, Sansa fears he might rip Nymeria apart altogether.

Not that he gets the chance, though, because his sister gives in and releases her hold on him. With a pitiful moan she stumbles away. Swaying once and then twice more, before falling on her side, heaving and groaning as she goes.

It’s in that moment that Arya flares up like wildfire. She runs up to her wolf, skids halfway across the snow and grabs a tight hold onto the wolf’s neck, pinning it down.

Ghost clearly to wants to fall in line and join her, but Sansa’s instincts act first. She grabs at him, an arm around his neck just like Arya did with Nymeria. And despite the fact that Ghost could easily overpower her, throw her down like a ragdoll and sprint off, he settles restlessly against her instead; Wild energy wanting and willing to escape, but the order to stay reigning supreme in the end.

Nymeria, meanwhile, is struggling in her own way. Nipping at Arya’s fingers, trying to flail out of her grip.

“A bit of help?!” her sister commands to the men and women around her, even as Nymeria is trying throw her off with her remaining strength.

Brienne moves first, with four men following suit, holding down the direwolf’s front- and hindlegs.

Sansa’s unsure whether Ghost wants to help his sibling or their people, but he’s adamant about it either way, nearly bucking hard enough to wrestle out of her grip.

“Right. Guess I should just…” Samwell asks, but doesn’t wait for answer, approaching Nymeria’s squirming form.

Between holding down Ghost and watching Arya try and do the same, Sansa can’t quite follow what exactly he’s doing. He seems to be poking and prodding at the beast aimlessly, humming and hawing as he goes.

Right up until he prods his finger on the underside of her belly.

“Oh dear. Found it.” He peeps, before placing both hands there.

Looking for…

For…

_Oh dear, indeed._

“What? –” Arya asks through gritted teeth. “- What is it?!”

“Good news, she’s not ill!” Sam sounds positively delighted by the prospect.

“Then _what?!_ ”

“She’s carrying pups.” Sansa adds, trying to hold down an extremely unruly Ghost.

“Pups?! How the in seven hells did that happen?” Nymeria nearly takes off one of Arya’s fingers.

“Another direwolf, I should think. –” Sam’s fear, meanwhile, has turned to unbridled enthusiasm. “- I mean, she couldn’t have been breeding with regular wolves. Look at the size of her, how would that even work? The male wolf wouldn’t even be able to climb up to-”

“ _Ser Tarly_ , if you don’t _quite_ mind _!”_ Sansa all but shouts.

“Right you are. Finishing up now.” He babbles.

After that, there’s a short inspection of Ghost’s bitemarks and a _very,_ very brief examination of Nymeria’s eyes and mouth (“All in working order.” Samwell had quickly claimed, taking a few large steps back) but then, finally, it’s time to let her go.

Arya orders the men to get up first. Then asks a hesitant Brienne to do the same. She herself goes last. Using her skills to nimbly slip away and dodge an angry Nymeria as she goes.

The direwolf, for her part, seems to calm down once she’s released. She doesn’t get up from the snow just yet, but her breathing slows down to little serene clouds huffing up in the air.

Ghost seems curious, but no longer alarmed.

It is at this point, that Sansa deems they ought to give the lady some room to recline. Once the excitement has died down, she motions at the knights to go backwards and pulls at Ghost’s scruff to get him to do the same.

Arya stays, though.

Sansa wouldn’t dream of telling her otherwise.

And so, she leaves her sister like that; sitting on her hunches in the cold snow, staring forlornly at an old friend they’d all thought lost to them.

* * *

 

Shireen has honestly never been so glad to sit safely in a nice and warm room with thick, sturdy walls and thick, sturdy doors. It wasn’t so long ago that she learned what the terror of fire meant, but today was surely a lesson in the terror of ice.

If she closes her eyes, she can still see the snowy trees and hear her own ragged breath as she ran for the safety of the keep. Praying that the direwolf would not chase her, praying that there weren’t others like it, watching her from the undergrowth.

She’d done well, though. Made it back to tell Arya, who in turn saved the Lady of Winterfell alongside Ghost.

Once they’d returned to the Great Hall, Sansa had immediately arranged for Bran to join them. After that, she’d had mulled cider prepared and handed out. To dampen the shock, both hers and everyone else’s. Gilly, in the meantime, wrapped Shireen in a thick fur blanket and told her to go sit by the fire. And that’s where she finds herself now, sitting in a corner of the Hall, bundled up and quietly stirring through half a glass of lukewarm cider.

Arya had joined them not a minute earlier, returning from her watch over Nymeria. There are questions aplenty on everyone’s mind, but real, true answers are rather hard to find.

“How is she?” Samwell asks.

“Skittish.” Is the reply. Which, Shireen is not surprised. She may have feared Nymeria at first, but even she has to admit that being sat on by five people is not what the direwolf deserves. Especially not in her condition.

“I suppose that’s to be expected.” Brienne agrees.

“I don’t understand what she’s even doing here. - ” Arya lets out a big gust of a sigh and flops down on one of the seats. “- Last I saw her she was in the Riverlands. There’s plenty of food there. Plenty of means to survive. Why come here where everything’s bare?”

“Of course, she’d come here. This is her home. Where would _you_ go if you unexpectedly found yourself with child?” Sansa counters.

Arya doesn’t answer that, looking deeply disturbed by the very idea of it.

“Regardless of that, I’m rather curious as to where Nymeria found another direwolf to…do the deed with in the first place? They’re not exactly a common sight.” Samwell tries, carefully sizing up the Stark sisters.

“Perhaps she went beyond the Wall.” Sansa sits down, taking a sip of her own drink.

“How’d she do that?”  

“Well, she seems to have a knack for getting past them.” Shireen mutters.

“Don’t worry, Lady Shireen, Nymeria did not scale the walls of Winterfell. -” Brienne speaks up. “- Ghost went out of the gates after supper yesterday. Just now, I’ve received word from the men at South Gate and the North Gate that they’d both let him back in later on the evening.”

“Two direwolves. One dark night.” Bran intercedes, still not giving away much.

“Those fools wouldn’t have seen the difference.” Arya lays an arm across her eyes.

“The question is; what do we do with her now? She obviously needs food and shelter. Which we can provide in the godswood, _if_ she doesn’t attack any more people. Direwolves in Winterfell are not a problem, but if she starts harming others, I cannot condone her presence.” There’s a rueful note in Sansa’s voice, with steel hiding underneath.

And given the events that just transpired, Shireen wholeheartedly agrees with her.

“She won’t. -” Arya concedes. “- We’ll make sure of that.”

“A hungry wolf is a dangerous wolf.” Bran murmurs.

“Good, then feeding her properly should be a step in the right direction.” Sansa folds her hands over one another.

“We can post guards at the godswood.” Brienne suggests.

“That seems like a given, yes.”

“Not just guards. I want to keep a close eye on her as well.” When Arya says this, Shireen can’t help but wonder if the gesture isn’t more about keeping Nymeria safe rather than the population of Winterfell.

“I agree, you should. -” Sansa turns towards her sister again. “- But remember, we also need to prepare for Jon’s return, the arrival of the Dragon Queen _and_ the arrival of the White Walkers. I want Nymeria safe and healthy too, but I need you by my side as well.”

Arya gives her a look that spells that she doesn’t feel much for those particular duties. Eventually though, she relents and nods briefly. 

“How long until the pups are born?” Gilly pipes up.

“Hard to tell, really. I’ve not got a maester’s chain and even if I had, it wouldn’t contain a link for animal medicine.” Samwell tells her.

“You must have some idea, though? You were pawing all over her.” Arya grumbles.

“I…well, If I had to wager a guess, I’d say she’s quite far along.”

“Send a raven to maester Wolkan. Keep it plain. I know he’s tending to Lady Berena in Hornwood, but perhaps he can weigh in on the issue.” There’s a finality to Sansa’s statement. Which is to say, everyone who needs to do something, knows what to do now and as always in Winterfell, there’s other pressing business to attend to.

As such, it’s the Stark sisters that leave first. Talking quietly amongst one another about…actually, Shireen’s got no idea what they’re talking about. Could be a number of things at this point.

Brienne silently exits the hall as well, no doubt to instruct the men guarding Nymeria and the godswood.

Samwell and Gilly don’t linger either. Because one of them has to send a raven and dig back into the books, while the other has a baby to take care of.

That just leaves Shireen and Bran alone in the hall.

Her glass of cider is long since empty, so Shireen carefully gets out of her chair, fur blanket still tucked closely around her body, and shuffles towards Bran.

“Can you tell what Nymeria is feeling about all this?” She settles down on the floor next to his chair.

He doesn’t respond. Eyes glassed over, seemingly a million miles away.

Once the last echoes of Shireen’s own voice have disappeared, she’s left feeling unsure on what to do now.

“Lord Bran? Are you alright?” She tries once more.

Still nothing.

Shireen sniffs and briefly debates with herself on whether she should get help or if this is simply normal for him.

“I am. I merely wasn’t here.” Bran’s calm voice rings out next to her.

“Oh. Alright then. Where’d you go?” There’s something terribly intriguing about the youngest Stark. He’s fascinating in same way that the direwolves and the heart trees and the Children are. And, Shireen supposes, in the same way she is nowadays, what with her return to the living.

“To Meereen.” He replies.

“Meereen? What’s in Meereen?” That has to be in Essos, right? She’d have known it, if it were in Westeros.

“Empty catacombs full of broken promises.”

“That’s sad.” And meaningful. Everything sounds meaningful when Bran says it. Shireen just hasn’t figured out how to decipher his words yet.

“Meereen isn’t sad. It’s angry. So very angry. You can barricade the doors to the pyramid and say it wasn’t your fault but Mhysa is still a master and only blood will pay for treachery.” There’s no particular inflection to the threat, as if Bran is simply reading it out loud from a letter.

He isn’t though.

He’s seeing someone who is livid, who feels these sentiments wholly and truthfully.

“Who is Mhysa?” Shireen asks, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“She isn’t anyone. Mhysa doesn’t exist anymore.” His eyes are boring into her, silently telling her that this is the last he’s willing to divulge on the subject.

Which, that’s alright. He doesn’t need to spell it all out for Shireen. There’s a library tower full of books in Winterfell. She can figure out this mystery by herself. 


	5. A Draconian Guest

_The secret to creating Meereenese silk is said to have been found in the ruins of Old Ghis. Ancient parchments pointing the first craftsmen towards the shores of the Skahazadhan. Here, they were able to harvest the worms of the Khyzai moth from the lady's lace plant and spin their cocoons into threads of silk. In order to kill the growing moth, one must steam the cocoon first. Afterwards, the cocoons can be rinsed in hot water so as to-_

Shireen sighs, when she’d started reading _A history of Meereenese silk_ , she had hoped for more of the Meereenese and less of the silk. However, the book seems to insist on methods and refinement rather than anything substantial on the place itself.

Still, she’s not in a situation to be picky; this is the only book in the entire Winterfell library that seems to be about Meereen at all. And to say she’s learned nothing of the city would be a lie. Case in point: She knows Meereen is a city now. Also, the people in Meereen wear something called a tokar and a lot of the work in the city seems to be done by slaves.

Ser Davos would know more about it, she’s certain. He’s been almost everywhere and has met almost everyone, be that in Westeros or Essos. He’d be able to tell her one sordid tale or another about it.

Therefore, it is quite fortuitous that he’s set to arrive in Winterfell today.

It’ll be so good to see him again, and not just to talk about the cities of Essos. It feels like ages since she last spoke to him. Conversely though, he’d left not long before Shireen had been…well…killed and it doesn’t feel like much time has passed since then. Two weeks at most.

Rationally, she knows it’s been much longer, but that period of time is just nothingness to her.

Aside from the happiness, Shireen is a bit worried about seeing her old friend as well. She’s not quite who she was then and who knows how Davos might feel about her coming back from the dead. It’s not exactly natural.

More like something Melisandre might do.

And Shireen knows very well how he felt about her.

Regardless of all that, though, no riders have been spotted heading to Winterfell yet, so they’ve got some time still. Time which she’s going spend reading the pages of _A history of Meereenese silk._

  _Afterwards, the cocoons can be rinsed in-_

“Do you know what this means? -” Gilly asks, holding up a book of her own. “- Gesta…Gesti-…Gestiti”

Her reading skills have improved in leaps and bounds, although the material in front of her might be a tad complex.

“Gestation.” Shireen concludes.

“Yeah. Gestation. What is it?”

Honestly, she doesn’t have a clue either, but quickly skims over the words, trying to get a summary that might-

Ah.

There it is.

“I think it’s how long the puppies are going to be in their mother’s belly.”

While Shireen had been browsing for books on Meereen, Gilly had found one on dogs. In particular the breeding of them. She’d reasoned that surely, there couldn’t be that much difference between a dog and a direwolf? And that this was the way to become learned on the subject.

Shireen’s not sure if that’s strictly speaking true, but it’s better than nothing.

A bit like her Meereenese silk.

“Says here it should be about two moons.” Gilly looks at Nymeria, who is barely visible from her place in the den.

They’re on ‘watch duty’ today, because Arya’s busy barking at the bannermen. So, Shireen and Gilly had packed up their fur blankets, their books, some cheese and bread and had headed towards the godswood.

Not alone, of course.

Ghost is with them, as per Sansa’s orders. He’s lying behind them, like a white furry hearth, radiating heat while keeping a close eye on his sister in the meantime. Which isn’t strictly speaking necessary; Nymeria has calmed down significantly in the week she’s been with them.

Oh, it’s still not advisable to go out and pet her. That might cost you an arm. But a steady supply of meat and serenity have taken the edge of the she-wolf. For example, she seems to have no problem with being a spectator to their snowy picnic today; laying back and yawning occasionally, but doing nothing more than that.

“The puppies have probably been in there for a month already.” If it isn’t more than that. Again, direwolves and dogs are not exactly comparable.

“I agree. She’s very big. The pictures say it shouldn’t be long now.” Gilly nods, settling the discussion.

With the silence upon them once again, Shireen tries to get back into the history of silk.

_In order to kill the growing moth, one must steam the cocoon first. Afterwards, the cocoons-_

She sighs.

Her toes are getting cold.

She tries reading the same sentence again, but gets stuck halfway through when a small robin bobs around on the ground nearby.

She wonders if it knows how close to two large predators it truly is.

_In order to kill the growing moth, one must steam-_

Shireen rubs her boots together.

And sighs again.

“Alright. That’s it. I’m done for today.” With a demonstrative clap, she closes the book.

“Yeah, this isn’t getting any more readable either.” Gilly’s turned her book to the side, trying to figure out which dog bits go where on the direwolves by anatomical drawings alone.

“Do you want to go and see what they’re preparing for the Dragon Queen’s arrival?” Shireen’s already getting up, gently tugging at Ghost’s flank to get him do the same.

“Sure.” Her friend shrugs, wrapping the books in the furs they just sat on.

Once they’ve waved a goodbye at Nymeria (who seems less than impressed by the gesture), the two of them start heading back towards the keep, away from the godswood, the den and the heart tree.

“So -” Gilly starts when they’re about halfway to the keep. “- what’s the Dragon Queen a queen of, anyway?”

That’s a tough question, because it really depends on who you ask. As such, it takes Shireen a good long moment to answer.

“Nothing yet, I suppose. She wants to be queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” And she wants it sooner, rather than later, if the gossip around Winterfell is to be believed.

“I thought queen Shurshee owned the Seven Kingdoms?” Gilly scrunches up her nose.

“Cersei. And yes, she does. For now. They might fight to decide if she gets to keep it.” And if Shireen isn’t careful, she might end up in that same brawl with them.

“That sounds complicated.”

“If you think that’s complicated, you should hear about the time we had five kings.” She snorts.

Gilly stops dead in her tracks and stares at Shireen.

“Giant’s balls! _Five kings?!_ No wonder they call you people kneelers.” Is what she splutters out eventually.

“One of them was a brother to Sansa and Arya, actually. He was the King in the North. Like Jon.” She doesn’t like thinking about what happened to him. It sounds far too cruel now that she knows both the Starks and their direwolves.

“Who were the others?” Gilly still looks slightly frazzled.

“Well, there was my father, my uncle, my cousin and a pirate.” Alright, now that she’s summing it up, Shireen has to admit that the whole mess was a little bit ridiculous.

“If your father, your uncle _and_ your cousin were kings, what does that make you?”

“Not interested in repeating their mistakes.”

There’s not a hair on her head that even considers elevating herself to the ranks of Cersei Lannister and Daenerys Targaryen. Not in the least because it would almost certainly mean her death, again, but also because the last thing the kingdoms need right now is another war over who gets to sit on the iron throne.

However, before she can explain to Gilly that Joffrey was about as much a true king as he was her true cousin, they’ve already arrived at the Great Hall.

Which is oddly crowded for this time a day.

The Northern bannermen are everywhere. She’s learned a couple of their names over the past few days; There’s Lady Mormont, obviously. Shireen would recognize her everywhere and has used that particular skill to avoid her whenever she can.

It’s not that she doesn’t _like_ Lady Mormont per se, it’s just that Lady Mormont seems weary of her presence. That’s probably father’s fault; he’d been putting quite a lot of pressure on the Stark bannermen before going off to fight the Boltons and the Others.

Then there’s Lord Manderly, a younger relative to man who made the painting, as well as Lady Karstark, who is still timid in the presence of these rowdy men. There’s also lord Tallhart, a Lord Flint and Lord Ryswell. The latter of whom is currently quarrelling with Brienne.

“Sit down, Lord Ryswell.” She tells him in no uncertain terms.

“I shan’t be ordered about by a woman. Certainly not one like you.”

“I am not ‘ordering’ you around. I am merely repeating _Lady Stark’s_ words. Though I would advise you to follow them.” Brienne can be a tad shy at times, but not now. Not like this. Not with a lesser man bellowing at her like he does.

Intimidated though he may be, Lord Ryswell doesn’t seem ready to give up.

“Then, I’d like to talk to _her,_ rather than her overgrown maid.”

“You want to talk to a Stark? Let’s talk.” Arya smirks, coming out of nowhere and conjuring up a bemused smile on Brienne’s stern face.

“I…I did not mean…There’s still the matter of the taxes to discuss. Given the weather you’d think we’d need more to-”

“Sit down.” Arya flatly orders him.

“Well, I…You can’t just…I came here to handle these matters. Not to play lapdog to a second daughter. I demand to speak to the Lady of Winterfell herself!” Shireen has to hand to the man, he’s very tenacious. Not wise, but definitely tenacious.

“Sit your arse down, right now! You can discuss your fucking gold later, when my sister isn’t _wrangling bloody dragons in the courtyard!_ ” Arya spits, and raises her dagger up to the man’s nose.

That, for all its crudeness, does the trick. Lord Ryswell’s voice dies in his throat and he obediently settles in one of the chairs at the table.

However, Arya’s glare soon falls upon Gilly and Shireen instead.

“And where have you two been? We’ve had a rider come in an hour ago. Jon and the Targaryen will be here shortly. Get dressed _._ ” She grumbles. Which, Arya doesn’t dislike them. Shireen knows she doesn’t. It’s probably more that she dislikes the pomp and the political kowtowing that comes with being the (second) lady of Winterfell.

So, they slip away from the Great Hall, with quiet feet and anticipation fluttering in their bellies.

The Dragon Queen it seems, has finally made her way North.

* * *

 

There she is then. This woman the whole of the kingdoms seems to be talking about. Daenerys Targaryen. Sansa can see her quite clearly from her corner of the walkway, although she’s sure no-one in the courtyard can gaze upon her in return.

Not unless they know where to look.

And there is only one person down in that courtyard who knows how to do that.

The Lady Targaryen is surprisingly small, Sansa decides. After all the stories Littlefinger had whispered into her ear, she’d thought…

Well, it’s silly, really.

Having said that, she’s not quite sure what to expect from this visit. For everything that’s been said and written about Daenerys Targaryen, there’s very little of actual substance; Tall tales and venomous gossip. Nothing more. As such, she’s had to rely on what Brienne had ascertained during her short time in King’s Landing.

The information is reliable, worrisome and above everything else, sparse.

Still, she’s glad her knight had sped back to Winterfell straight after the meet. The bits and pieces were enough for her to make preparations, to create the broad outlines of a plan and to get an idea on who it is that has walked through their gates.

Meanwhile, the servants are dutifully handing out the spiced wine and the salted broth to everyone in the courtyard. They had to rush in order to finish it on time.

However, judging by the looks of the Dragon Queen and her escort, they’ve done their job quite well, even in their haste. Everyone has happily tucked into the meal without wondering or asking for better lodging.

Or rather, they haven’t yet.

The cold probably helps the hot wine and broth go down even easier. These foreign men must be freezing, with their coats too flimsy and their armour not yet padded.

There’s one brief moment where she can see Jon in the crowd. _Finally. Again._ He’s taking a gulp from his own goblet, eyes peaking over the rim, fixed on the walkways, on that one hidden spot. _Her spot._

She nods, even as her stomach flutters.

_I’m so glad he’s home again._

_We’re all home again._

He’s finished his drink and his eyes have drifted back to Davos. Back to the others. But Sansa’s still frozen from the crown of her head to the tip of her toes, unsure on what to do now or how to proceed next.

Then, of course, there’s a pair of light footsteps tapping along on the wood, heading towards her with a significant speed.

Sansa instantly knows who it is and what they want without looking away from the courtyard.

“Careful now, we wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.” Her hand lands on Shireen’s shoulder just in time to stop her from wandering onwards and into full view of the Dragon Queen, who is only just starting to focus on the wine she’s been given.

 “I’m sorry. I was just curious.”

“About the dragons? Don’t worry, they aren’t here yet.” And when they get here they’ll not have a place in Winterfell. She’s had three large barns outside the walls, all empty due to the winter, refitted for the creatures: the thatched roofs are now gone, the wood is carefully embedded in stone masonry and the walls have been made higher.

It’s not the Dragon Pit of King’s Landing, but it’ll have to do.

“Oh.-” Despite her earlier interest, Shireen doesn’t sound particularly disappointed at their absence. “- It’s just, with the way Arya spoke of them, I thought you’d be down there; singlehandedly slaying them with your sword.”

“My sword?” Sansa can feel the corner of her lips tick upwards.

“It sounded very impressive.” Shireen smiles back at her.

“Exaggeration is a good way to keep people’s attention.”

“Yeah, Arya seemed rather disgruntled about that. The having to keep people’s attention bit.” There’s a question hiding underneath Shireen’s observation. A worry she hasn’t yet voiced.

“Arya? Disgruntled at a room full antsy bannermen? I simply can’t imagine it. -” Sansa snorts and Shireen laughs almost loud enough to be heard in the courtyard below. Still. “- The bannermen know Arya and I trust her to handle them.”

The words aren’t mere platitudes. As incredulous as this might be to the thirteen-year-old Sansa who went to King’s Landing; Arya is not overall bad at leading her people. She’s a bit coarse and rough around the edges, but she knows what’s important to her and what’s important to them and how to twine both together eventually.

Even if there is a slight chance of throat cutting involved.

_There’s a place for that too in leadership. At the right times._

“Go on. Get inside.” She tells Shireen. The servants in the courtyard are running out of broth and wine. Everyone’s had their fill.

That means it is time for the formalities.

Brienne has already exited the Great Hall and is standing guard for…

Well, for what happens now.

Sansa takes her first step, and then another and another. On and on until she reaches the staircase. At this point she’s well in view of the entire courtyard. And while many of the knights, from the North or of the Vale, are already standing to attention, the Dragon Queen and her men are only just now realizing what it happening.

Not Jon, though.

No, Jon’s been watching her from the moment she started her journey towards them. Relief, fear and hope are drawn across his face in equal measures. He’s no doubt wondering the same thing as Sansa is: Has he made the right choices? Has he brought a storm into their homes? Is this the salvation they’ve been looking for?

It doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t wait until she’s come to him. With just a few broad steps he’s crossed the courtyard and Sansa’s arms open up before she can stop herself. Jon never hesitates and plunges into the embrace, shame and hesitance completely forgotten.

It is as it was at Castle Black.

Like breath of fresh air after drowning. He is here. He is home. They are not alone anymore.

His warm breath skates over her cheek and before she can consider what she feels at that, there’s a whisper against her ear.

“The North is yours.”

The same words he’d said before leaving. But…it doesn’t make sense. He’d pledged their forces, their people, to Daenerys Targaryen. Called himself a warden. He gave up his title and his land to _her._ So how…?

Her gaze is drawn upwards, to the Queen and her companions. Judging by the contentedness the Dragon Queen is exuding, she certainly seems to believe the North is already hers.

But then…?

_Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend._

And just like that, the events begin to unfold. Jon, pledging himself to a queen, but the North is Sansa’s. Because he knows well enough that the North will never bend to another southern ruler again.

He is no longer the King in the North.

But he’d given the North away to Sansa long before he could gift it to someone else.

_By the Gods, Jon. What dangerous game do you intend to play here?_

They needed dragonfire and dragonglass. He’d gotten them both. They’ll fight the White Walkers alongside Daenerys Targaryen, then they’ll fight Cersei alongside her and then…

Then, they’ll have to fight her.

When Jon finally lets go and begins to step out of their embrace, it feels like years have already passed. Is this what it’s like for Bran? To see the future laid out for you like stepping stones?

But no, she’s not Bran, she has to keep both her feet firmly on the ground. She has to be in the here and now, because Daenerys is walking towards her and she needs to set her own gears in motion.

The Dragon Queen comes to stand next to Jon, while her other companion stays back. Sansa briefly wonders who he might be, while putting on the smile that got her out of King’s Landing alive.

“Welcome, your Grace. Winterfell is yours.” It slips out exactly as rehearsed. Her father’s words to King Robert. A little piece of the past, here to guide her in the present.  

“Thank you. We’re glad to have arrived.” There’s a confident, satisfied smile on the queen’s face and Sansa has seen enough women in the Red Keep wear it to know exactly what it means.

 _He’s fucked his way into another alliance. How impressive._ The memory of Petyr Baelish whispers the words into her mind, nauseating her even from beyond the grave. And if it were quite possible, Sansa would’ve liked to swat it away like the bothersome insect it is.

As it stands, she merely tries to drown it out with the dulcet sounds of Jon’s voice.

“I do believe that the Queen’s Hand needs no introduction.”

Indeed, he doesn’t. She’d recognized Tyrion Lannister the moment he walked through the gates.

“Lady Sansa, it is so good to see you safe and healthy again.”

“And you, Lord Tyrion. -” No-one seems keen to bring up the part where they’re supposedly married, so Sansa certainly isn’t going to either.

Does the Dragon Queen know, or is it another secret meant to be kept?

“- The bannermen of the North are gathered here to welcome you, your Grace.” She turns towards Jon and Daenerys.

That, at the very least, seems to elicit a reaction from both of them. They hadn’t thought that their arrival would be prepared. They hadn’t considered that they might be facing a room full of stubborn, straightforward Northmen today.

Well, they most certainly are.

And Sansa can only hope that those Northmen might be able to keep up a veneer of respect for a ‘southern ruler’ they never wanted. Or else this game might turn into one of warfare much sooner than she’d like. 


	6. A Northern Hall

When they enter the Great Hall, it’s completely quiet. There’s not even the usual hustle and bustle of men dealing with other men.

Today, there is not peep amongst them.

But however quiet it may be, the Hall is certainly not empty.

And Sansa has to admit, Arya did her job very well. Like a true Lady of Winterfell, she harangued them all into shape: The Northern lords and ladies are standing by their seats at the tables, and the Knights of the Vale are lined up in the aisle. Shireen is standing between them, cloaked, and hidden by the tall figures of Lord Royce and Lord Waynewood. Finally, at the centre of the room, there’s Gilly and Sam, as well as Bran and Arya.

Well, Arya is only there until she sees Jon. Sansa doesn’t need to be looking at him to realize when they spot one another. All the decorum and grimness promptly slides off of Arya’s face and in that moment, she’s the eleven-year-old girl who left for the South again.

She bolts from her place and takes nothing short of a leap into Jon’s arms.

Jon, meanwhile, seems to completely forget his own troubles and bellows out a full-bodied laugh, spinning her around.

“Gods, you’ve gotten so big!” He heaves, putting her back on the floor.

“Why’re you wearing your hair like me?! It looks ridiculous.” Arya snorts.

Sansa can’t quite stop herself from smiling either. _This_ is what it’s supposed to be like when family comes home. This is how Winterfell was always meant to be. Filled with family, filled with happiness, laughter and teasing.

“You must be one of Jon’s brothers.” The Dragon Queen’s voice rings out, and oh dear, they’re off to good start already.

Sansa closes her eyes briefly, envisioning whatever it is Arya’s temper might be about to do.

“Your Grace, I’d like you to meet my sister: Arya Stark.” Jon quickly steps in, no doubt narrowly avoiding a potential political disaster.

“I…Of course…I’m sorry, I should’ve -” Daenerys starts.

“Don’t worry about it.” Arya shoots back, forgoing every form of propriety. The mask of the assassin meanwhile quietly slipping back onto her face.

And then, just like that, she allows all of their guests to focus on everything and everyone else. Within moments, Arya has disappeared back into the crowd, becoming nothing more than a shadow on the wall.

 _It’s almost like magic_ , Sansa thinks, before wondering if it isn’t exactly that.

“Please, allow me to introduce you to the rest of our company.” She smiles at the queen and her Hand, gesturing that they should definitely move on from the odd young woman who has the skills and the discipline to kill them all on a whim.

They head down the aisle, passing the entirety of their other southern allies, and as they do, Sansa wills herself not to look at Shireen. If it is at all possible, no-one ought to look at her. Not Sansa, not Jon, not Davos and certainly not Daenerys and her armed friends.

Instead, she steers them towards Bran, who, by all rights, should’ve been addressed first anyway.

This reunion is far more painful to see than the one with Arya was. Jon takes one look at Bran’s face and Sansa can almost see his heart break. With just a single glimpse, Jon knows that something was taken from their brother. Like time has taken things from them all. Their innocence, their virtue and in some cases, their very lives.

Still, he reaches out to hold the younger man’s face in his hands, carefully leaning his forehead against Bran’s.

“Welcome home.” Bran’s voice betrays no emotion of any kind.

“I’m so glad you’re still alive.” Jon’s, on the other hand, trembles with the many regrets unspoken.

“Lord Bran Stark.” Sansa tells the queen.

“Now, this _is_ my brother.” Jon tells her, once he’s reluctantly let go.

“We’re family.” Bran adds.

“Wonderful to finally meet you all. Jon has told me so much about you.” If Daenerys is in any way bemused or confused by yet another odd Stark, she doesn’t show it.

“Lord Bran, allow me to say that I’m glad to see you well again too.” Tyrion approaches him and Sansa wonders exactly when they had the time to get to know one another.

“Cripples, bastards and broken things.” Bran nods.

“Exactly.” He smiles back at her brother in a surprisingly delicate manner.

“Samwell Tarly-” Jon moves on, hugging his old friend and clapping him on the back. “- Best man in the Night’s Watch. One of the few who’s actually killed a White Walker himself.”

The smile on Tyrion’s face abruptly disappears, turning into a thoughtful frown, and Sansa files that odd behaviour away for later.

Sam, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to tell everyone that his act of bravery was actually an accident and that he would very much like to be excused now.

“Y-your Grace.” He stammers out instead.

Daenerys merely gives him a curt nod. 

Gilly, who is standing next to him, looks far more secure in her role and Sansa takes it upon herself to present her to the Dragon Queen.

“Allow me to introduce your Grace to Gilly of the Free Folk. She’s here to speak for them during our council.” It isn’t a lie, strictly speaking, and if Sansa had to pick anyone from the Free Folk to interact with the South, it would definitely be Gilly. Still, the fact remains that the rest of them stubbornly refused to sit down to deal to a ruler who _isn’t_ Jon. They hardly want to talk to _Gilly_ herself, let alone a Targaryen.

Gods, how she wishes Tormund was here to persuade them. He, at the very least, would show up anywhere so long as there’s the promise of Brienne.

But that’s neither here nor there. Gilly curtseys exactly like they practiced and Sansa doesn’t even bother hiding the pride on her face.

What a long way she’s come, to end up here at Winterfell of all places.

“Please, -” Sansa tells the company. “- We’ve prepared the high table for you to sit at and are quite keen to hear what word you’ve brought from the south.”

Daenerys, for her part, seems agreeable enough about settling into her place. In fact, she’s halfway up there before her Hand decides to make his presence known to them once more.

“Hold on, please. I mean no offense, but there’s a whole host of other people here that I’m curious about.” His eyes roam over the room.

“Did you have anyone particular in mind, Lord Tyrion?” She asks.

His gaze moves towards the small space between Lord Royce and Lord Waynewood, while a pit of dread begins to open up in Sansa’s stomach.

_My lord husband has always been far too clever for his own good._

“Yes, actually. I did.” He wanders over to Shireen, putting everyone’s attention on her.

“Forgive me for saying so, child, but you have some very peculiar markings on your face.” He stares at her, fascinated by her condition. By what it means that she’s here.

And naturally, courtesy dictates that Shireen has to pull down the hood of her cloak to show herself to the Lord addressing her.

Sansa carefully inspects the reactions of her guests. Daenerys , first off, doesn’t seem to recognize Shireen at all. Neither do the other men in her company. Varys, perhaps, looks like he’s got a clue of what is going on and the queen’s Westerosi bodyguard looks somewhat surprised, but again, no recognition.

Jon, on the other hand, is quite shocked but also a mite pleased to see the girl they all thought burned at the stake alive and well.

Ser Davos, though. Poor Ser Davos. He looks like he might keel over at any minute. There are so many emotions running over his face that Sansa can’t even keep track of them all. He’s gone pale, his eyes are already brimming with tears and his hand is clenching onto the table, trying to hold himself steady.

“Greyscale, is it? But not quite. The marks have aged but haven’t spread, have they?”

 “No, my Lord. They haven’t.” Shireen is steely looking ahead. Avoiding everyone’s eyes.

“You have been cured. Haven’t you?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“There is only one girl in Westeros to ever have been cured of greyscale. –” Tyrion even has the gal to look thoughtful. Like he isn’t well aware of her identity by now. “- My, my, Lady Stark, I wasn’t aware we were in the presence of a _Baratheon_ heir.”

Every inch of the Dragon Queen’s curiosity disappears. Her entire body reacts to the word _Baratheon._ Her spine tenses, her hands instantly let go of the chair she intended to sit on. Her teeth have clenched, mouth now a thin line. There’s fire in her eyes and blood on her mind, of that Sansa is sure.

Her men, likewise, notice the change. Fingers already resting on the pommel of their curved blades.

“So, this one is a threat to me then?” It’s enough of a signal to her warriors. They unsheathe their weapons and move towards poor little Shireen.

The knights of the Vale and the North respond accordingly. Brienne’s sword is out first, and the dangerous noise of weapons being drawn echoes across the Hall not long after. Lord Royce even puts the tip of his blade against the throat of a very shocked and surprised Tyrion.

Sansa had once feared that the North might not welcome strangers like the Free Folk, the Knights of the Vale or Shireen, but her worries are thankfully, blessedly, proven utterly false.

They may have thought her an outsider amongst themselves, but today, against these strange _invaders,_ Shireen is irrevocably and irreplaceably one of them. Because even though she’s been with them for barely more than a week, _all_ the bannermen seem willing to lay down their lives for her here.

Not that Sansa intends to let it get to that.

“My lords, my _queen_! -” her voice sharply and loudly pierces through the crowd. “- You are our welcome _guests_ , you have eaten our food and drank our wine. That means everyone here is protected by the ancient tradition of the Guest Right. -”

The foreign men hesitate.

Their queen doesn’t.

Because her stare remains unwavering. Her anger is there for all the world to see. Even while the swords of her soldiers are slowly lowering.

“- And let me assure you that we take that right very seriously here. We won’t allow the sacrilege of it. Not ever again.” There’s painful ache slithering through Sansa’s heart at the thought of her mother and brother.

_Lady Catelyn Tully._

_King Robb Stark._

“Just ask the Boltons and the Freys about that!” Arya sneers, and the Hall erupts into a chorus of ayes and laughter.

The words and the jeering serve to cast further doubt on the queen’s men. Still, she herself doesn’t seem suffer from the same affliction. Her mouth opens and Sansa can already hear the order in her mind, can already see the slaughter that will follow.

_This._

_This is why I needed the bannermen here with us._

But then, without warning, Jon is there. Placing a hand on the queen’s heart.

“This is what the old king would do. What he tried to do to you and your brother. You are not the old king.” He stares deeply into her eyes and suddenly, she seems to remember herself. Where she is. What she wants.

“Do you wish to usurp the throne like the others before you, little girl?” She snaps at Shireen.

“No, your Grace, I do not.” Shireen counters her question with complete politeness and sincerity.

“Very well, then. I suppose we can all get along.” Daenerys warns Jon, and then promptly turns to leave the Hall.

As her small form recedes, Sansa breathes out her relief. The plan worked. She’d intended to reveal Shireen here, if not quite so soon and had needed some contingencies to make _sure_ that the poor girl would not be killed for the name of her House alone.

Of course, If Jon hadn’t stepped in, hadn’t reminded Daenerys Targaryen that she too was bound by the rules, promises and manners of the realm, it would’ve all been for naught anyway.

As the entourage of the Dragon Queen moves to follow her, Jon most visibly amongst them, Sansa looks towards a wide-eyed and shaken Shireen. She had done exactly the right thing, had said the only six words that might save her own life. A pale hint of smile appears on Sansa’s face.

_Slaying dragons indeed._

Though, thinking about it, Sansa supposes that if courtesy is a lady’s armor, then she might have sword in etiquette after all.

* * *

 

Her heart feels like it’s been replaced by a herd of wild horses, stampeding all over her chest cavity. She hadn’t realized, or simply hadn’t want to think about what the foreign queen might want to do to her if she were to figure out Shireen’s identity.

She might have thought it to be something like Melisandre or her own mother; quick, cutting jabs with eerie warnings and threats.

Not…

Not this.

Not a room full of knights drawing their swords over her. Over nothing really at all, because she _never_ wanted the throne and today has only strengthened her resolve in that matter.

However, the Dragon Queen has been tempered and led away from her. She is, for now at least, quite safe.

In fact, the Great Hall is mostly empty, with the Bannermen scattering a while ago. It’d been odd, watching them leave, because for the first time since she’d arrived, they took note of her presence. Nodding at her, grunting something that didn’t sound unkind. Even Lady Lyanna Mormont had come up to her, had put a hand on her shoulder and had resolutely said:

“If those southerners think they can just come in and snatch you from us, they’d best learn to think again.”

Their kind gestures don’t stop the horses, though. They’re still running a mad race inside of her. Not over blood, or politics or anything so meaningless as that.

They’re running because of her friend.

Because Ser Davos is sitting there. Just sitting there, staring at her like she’s something out of a fever dream. Or a nightmare. Shireen doesn’t dare to ask which it is exactly.

He’d hugged her the first chance they’d got. Been crying even. Murmuring hopes and questions that She couldn’t answer.

_“Thank the Gods you escaped.”_

_“How did you escape?”_

_“Please tell me you escaped.”_

The hardest part was telling him that she never did escape. That the fire came and that the flames had swallowed her whole in the end.

She knows his son died in a blaze of Wildfire.

She doesn’t want to tell him what it’s like, how it hurts, how much of her was destroyed by it.

She doesn’t want to think about how unfair it is that she’s here while Matthos Seaworth is not.

“Y-you were really dead, then?” He stammers.  

“Yes. -” she starts. “- I’m sorry.”

“Oh, sweet child, you are the very last person who should be apologizing for _any_ of this.” His hand seems to reach out for a brief moment, only to eventually land over his mouth again.

“I’m…I’m not sure what else I should say?”

“Well, you might start by saying ‘Where in the seven hells were you, you useless Onion Knight’?!” He blames himself for what happened. She’d feared that he might.

“I knew where you were! You were doing what father asked you to do. Same as I was.”

“Yes, but my orders didn’t involve being _burned alive_! -” He swallows hard and takes in a gulp of air. “-Oh, praise and curse the Seven…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even be saying things like that.”

“It’s not technically speaking untrue, I suppose.” Shireen shrugs.

“Your father and your mother. You know that they…?”

“I know. Don’t worry. The Northerners have been very honest. I just…” She stalls, uncertain on how to explain this next part.

“What it is?”  There is a gentleness in Ser Davos’s eyes. A vulnerability she hasn’t seen much in him.

“I don’t know how to feel about it.” She truly doesn’t. Because all that’s left is the void and the ashes and they don’t much care for tears.

“I’ll tell you how to feel about it! -” His temper returns with a vengeance. “- You feel whatever you like about it! Be angry, be happy, be sad or…or… be _hungry_ about it for all you like _._ Be whatever what you want. That stubborn arse of a father you had doesn’t get to stand on deference anymore!”

He slams his hand on the table, briefly scaring the maids in the corner of the hall.

“What if I don’t feel anything about it?” Shireen carefully murmurs.

“Then, you don’t feel anything about it. Maybe you will later. Maybe you won’t. It is what it is. And whatever eventually bubbles up, just…you can talk to me about it. If you like.” It’s very comforting to hear things being put so matter-of-factly.

“He did love me, though. My father. And my mother…I think she may have too.” And isn’t that supposed to count for something?

“Aye, they did, but not as much as they loved their fucking Red God.” Ser Davos sighs, and Shireen raises her eyebrows.

“Right. Sorry. Shouldn’t be swearing in front of a lady.”

She decides not to mention that he’s been swearing for quite a while now. Or that she’s spent enough time with Arya Stark and the Free Folk to be inured to every bad word in the Westerosi language.

“Was it…did you…Was the Red Priestess involved in this? Did she regret what she did and-” He asks.

“She wasn’t involved. Haven’t seen or heard of her since…y’know.”

“Not even that, then.” Ser Davor grumbles.

“It was the Old Gods, actually. And the Children of the Forest.”

“The trees?”

“Well, the Gods _in_ the trees, but yes.” She nods.

“Why, though? Not that I’m complaining, of course. But why here? Why now? Why at this godforsaken place during the end of all things.” There’s a heavy burden in his voice, one that wasn’t there before. Whatever Jon did, whatever he showed him, it’s weighing on him now.

“The end of all things? This is not the end of all things. It’s just winter. It’ll pass and then it’ll be spring again, like always.” She smiles, snuggling a little further into her warm cloak.

This time, Ser Davos’s hand does manage to reach out, and very carefully covers her own.

“I’m glad that I have you young people to believe in, because I really don’t know what else I’m supposed to believe in anymore.”

And this? This convinces Shireen that she’s definitely back to serve a purpose of some kind. It’s more effective than Sansa’s words or Bran’s wisdom or even the Dragon Queen’s threats.

Yes, they’ll all see the arrival of Spring. Together. She’s going to do whatever she can to make that happen.

 


	7. A Frail Alliance

“Meereen?” Ser Davos asks.

“Uhu.” Shireen nods, watching the people of Winterfell putter about at the kitchens.

“What’s brought on this interest in Meereen of all places?” He turns the block of wood over in his hand, whittling down a small corner.

“It’s in the book.” She taps her finger on _A history of Meereenese silk,_ currently lying in her lap.

“Well, they’ve got a lot of silk. I know that much.” There’s a shrug, and another curl of wood falls to the floor.

“You don’t say.” Shireen snorts, showing him the title.

It takes him a moment to get through the writing and Shireen notes that even though he’s still mouthing the words along as he reads them, he’s no longer saying them out loud. That’s definitely some progress worth mentioning.

“Right. -” Ser Davos smiles. “- I should tell you that I’ve only been there once or twice, princess. It’s not a…nice city. None of ‘em in Slaver’s bay are. Lest you can stand the look of innocent men and women in chains.”

“You mean the slaves.”

“I read about them. It sounds horrible. -” Gilly adds, shifting baby Sam from one arm to another. “- A disgrace to the Old Gods, if you ask me. Even I was born more free than that.”

Shireen doesn’t know the specifics of what happened to Gilly beyond the wall, but she knows that in comparison, her own childhood at Dragonstone was a fortuitous one.

“Aye. Queen Daenerys let them go, though. Hence the ‘breaker of chains’ title.” Ser Davos mentions.

“So, they’re free now? The slaves of Meereen?” Shireen isn’t exactly fond of the Dragon Queen, but if she’s defeated an evil such as that, there might be something worth admiring about her after all.

“I suppose so. Haven’t heard much about it otherwise.” He shrugs.

Perhaps Mhysa was one of the slave masters in Meereen. Perhaps it was Daenerys who came in and knocked the lady off her throne. Perhaps Meereen finally got angry enough to cast out its old masters.

It’s all a _perhaps,_ though.

She hasn’t told anyone else about what Bran said yet. Doesn’t want to let the ominous words further into the world until she’s found out exactly what they mean.

And while she’s been pondering over them, the conversation between Gilly and Ser Davos has marched on, because when she turns back to it, they’re speaking of a different subject altogether.

“There’s the fighting pits too. They sent men in there to kill for sport. To appease their gods with blood.” There’s a grim note in Ser Davos’s voice, and Shireen knows that he’s thinking of the people Melisandre put on the pyre.

“Any god that needs to be appeased by blood, up north or down south, is no god at all.” Gilly murmurs, combing through little Sam’s fluffy hair.

“Couldn’t agree more, Lady Gilly. Couldn’t agree more.” He is giving his block of wood a careful once over. There’s the figure of a deer carved into the sides. A doe. To match the stag he’d made for her before.

He gave that one back to her yesterday, had kept it with him all this time. The poor figurine is quite worse for wear. Blackened by soot, missing one antler and having completely lost its hindlegs. Still, Shireen finds that she likes it all the same, if not more now, because it’s been through what she’s been through and has come out alright in the end.

Ser Davos had even suggested that they find some way to repair it, by using some resin to fasten a new pair of legs under it, or something similar.

Shireen had politely declined.

It doesn’t need legs. It’s fine as it is.

And thus, Ser Davos has begun working on the doe instead.

She wants to ask him about his plans for it, but before she can start on that particular subject, a deep, rumbling voice interrupts their conversation.

“Es havazhaan, naqis mezhah!” A man shouts, before spitting at Shireen’s feet. He’s wearing northern furs, much like everyone is nowadays, but his long braid and foreign tongue immediately betray his identity.

_Dothraki._

The two knights of the Vale who are guarding Shireen today spring into action, pushing the man backwards, telling him to leave.

He doesn’t.

Because the men from the Dragon Queen’s Khalasar dislike Shireen more than the queen herself seems to. After all, she hasn’t seen or heard from queen Daenerys since their fateful meeting in the Great Hall, but the Dothraki riders have already made several attempts to get to Shireen of their own accord.

She’s not sure if they want to kill her for ‘threatening’ their leader or if they’re simply looking to insult and harass, because every attempt so far has been met with a quick response from the allies around her.

Yesterday, Brienne and Podrick had to rough up a pair of them before they’d left well enough alone.

This morning, when a group of riders were eyeing Shireen, Arya had shouted something in Braavosi that was apparently so universally filthy and threatening that the men promptly went back to their tents instead.

Right now, Ser Davos looks like he might want to have a stern word with the one who spat at her, and he isn’t the only one.

The knights of the Vale and the growling rider are attracting quite a crowd. Mostly onlookers, curious cooks and maids, Karstark knights who look ready to strike at the first sight of violence, and then there’s the Free Folk.

They, in particular, have not been getting along with the Dothraki.

You see, Sansa had gifted the Khalasar with a great spot to settle in, A gesture of good will towards their allies. It’s out of the wind, near the kitchens and above an underground hot spring. Perfect, really. If not for the fact that it’s also right next to the camps of the Free Folk.

Now, this is certainly not an oversight on behalf of the Lady of Winterfell, because the wildlings are seemingly the only ones who can properly deal with the violence and the bullying of the Khalasar.

For example, she’d heard that a small group of men had tried to invade the Free Folk camp at night to defile their women. The result? Well, Lord Royce had only snickered and told her that the Dothraki who tried have since joined the ranks of the Unsullied instead.

Whatever that may mean.

Sure enough, they don’t seem to abide each other’s presence today either. Because while the knights are still carefully pushing the Dothraki away, hoping to avoid conflict, there’s a large, bald wildling who seems quite done with the noise and the uproar altogether.

He takes one look at the rider, swings back his arm and decks him before the Dothraki even has the chance to look away from Shireen. And it doesn’t stop there, because while the rider starts shouting and struggling, the wildling simply holds him down, silently hammering blow upon blow upon blow on him in return.

It takes two southern and three northern knights to eventually break up the fight and afterwards, the Dothraki can only limp off, face bloodied and mangled by the fight.

“Stay the fuck away from our girls, you kneeling cunt!” The bald man rasps, before spitting at him and walking away, never sparing Shireen so much as a glance in the process.

Gilly just sighs, sounding disappointed, but not especially perturbed by the fighting. Meanwhile, Ser Davos and the knights cautiously settle back into their spot.

“I hate this.” Shireen murmurs.

“I’d be worried if you didn’t.” he picks up the block of wood again, carefully wiping the snow from it.

“I don’t understand why they’re all fighting over me. The Free Folk don’t even _like_ nobles!” She puts her head in her hands.

“They’re not fighting over you. I don’t think. They’re just fighting for the sake of fighting. If you hadn’t been here, they’d be fighting over the women, the food or even the weather.” Ser Davos’s voice sounds muffled through the veil of her own hair.

“Would be nice if I was something other than a good excuse for a brawl.” It seems whiny, even to her own ears, because the fact that Shireen’s alive enough to be the source for a brawl is miraculous enough on its own.

“Don’t worry, princess. These Dothraki men are merely trying to establish their place in our alliance. I reckon that sooner or later, they’ll grow as tired of it as you are.” His small knife is back to whittling wood.

But given the fact that an Army of the Dead is marching towards them, Shireen really hopes it’s sooner, rather than later, because they’ll need everything they have to defeat the Night King.  

* * *

 

Two days.

It’s only been two days.

Two very long days, granted, but merely days nonetheless. Perhaps though, Sansa reasons, it feels much longer because she hasn’t spoken to Jon _at all_ in those two days. A passing sentence here and there, sure, but otherwise, he’s been far to occupied with Daenerys Targaryen to speak with his siblings.

Or no, that’s unfair.

She’d heard from Arya that they, at least, have had several long discussions about where they’ve been and what they’ve done. Which is good. They, out of all of them, have so much to catch up to. Sansa doesn’t begrudge them that.

She just rather _wishes_ that Jon and herself could put aside some of the monumental tasks they’ve been undertaking to actually speak to one another.

However, he can’t simply let the Dragon Queen simmer in her rage over Shireen and the disrespect of the lords. He cannot stop trying to bridge the gap between their allies. If he does, they might as well hand Winterfell over to the Night King now.

And likewise, Sansa can’t exactly stop overseeing their hunters, their smiths, their seamstresses, their tanners, their curers, their farmers, their soldiers, and above all else, their food storages and their armouries. Because if she does, there’ll be no-one left to hand Winterfell over to the Night King by the time he arrives.

As such, any and all possibilities to speak to one another are completely left to providence and serendipity.

Serendipity, such as Sansa crossing the courtyard at the exact same time as Jon is trying to get into the Godswood.

Providence, such as them putting guards in front of the Godswood a mere week ago. Guards with very strict instructions to only allow a select few to pass through.

And Jon, in his absence, has not been elected as one of those few.

“What do you mean, _I can’t?_ ” Jon deadpans at the guard.

“Means you can’t.” The guard shrugs, wholly unconcerned by who it is he’s talking to.

Good. They picked this one specifically for his irreverence. He doesn’t much care for rank and won’t buckle to status. Which is normally great, because the last thing anyone wants is the respected _hand of the queen_ or Gods forbid, the _queen herself_ snooping around in the Godswood right now.

“But my direwolf can?” He lets out a desperate snort.

“Which one’s that then?” the guard japes.

“The white one. _The only one we have…_ ” Jon groans.

“You sure he’s in there?” He looks into the Godswood with a false look of surprise on his face.

“You _just_ let him pass you by.”

So, the irreverence is all good and well, but it does not serve any of them right now.

“It’s quite alright, William, he’s…-” Sansa nearly finds herself saying ‘your king’, only to realize that technically, Jon isn’t. Not anymore. “-…a friend. We can let him pass.”

William has lived in Winterfell all his life. He knows damn well who Jon is, but Sansa can’t find it in her to call Jon ‘warden’ yet. It doesn’t seem to fit. Doesn’t seem right for a man of his stature. At the very least, Jon ought to be lord of Winterfell while he is here.

Except that title is hers now, against every last one of her expectations.

“If you say so.” William shrugs, but steps out of the way all the same.

“Would you care for some company?” She asks Jon, already linking their arms together.

“Yes, please.” He sighs, frustration ebbing away as he speaks.

 Sure enough, they’re only a few feet into the Godswood when Ghost comes padding out of the treeline; ears perked up and tail wagging like he hasn’t got a care in the world.

Jon gently lets go of her arm and walks up to the beast.

“Finally, you absolute arse. What in the seven hells have you been doing all this time?” He hunches over, roughly stroking one hand through the thick white fur, while the other playfully grabs a hold of the direwolf’s snout.

Ghost himself, meanwhile, merely looks like he might want to ask Jon the same question.

“Don’t worry, he’s picked out quite an important job for himself.” Sansa laughs.

“And I’m sure that job has everything to do with the reason why the entire Godswood is guarded better than the King’s landing dungeon?” He turns to her, while Ghost is doing a thorough inspection of Jon’s ear with his tongue.

“It most certainly does. Come, I’ll show you.” She holds out her hand and helps him up when he grabs it.

“So, what is it then?” He smiles.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise just yet.” This one, Sansa decides, has to be seen to be believed.

“At least give me a hint.” There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Let’s just say you’re not quite done with the reunions yet.”

“Please don’t tell me you’ve got Littlefinger strung up somewhere in there.” Jon asks her with a completely straight face.

She outright laughs at that.

“No, this one’s less likely to bite the hand that feeds.”

Still, Jon can’t seem to grasp the humour of the situation just quite yet. He stops abruptly, putting his hands firmly on her upper-arms.

“Sansa, where is he? I haven’t seen him in two days. -” The worry in his voice is palpable. “- We can’t have that eel slithering about unseen, the damage he might do…”

“Don’t worry. I know where he is.” Sansa susses.

“Where, then?” His eyes are staring deeply into hers, trying to read…something from them.

“In an unmarked grave just outside of Winterfell. We put him there ourselves.” That certainly gets the point across. Jon’s eyebrows shoot up, looking at her like he’s both happy she did it, and unsure about _who_ she really is.

“And by we, you mean…?”

“Arya, a few knights and myself.” It hadn’t been pleasant, to watch his lifeless corpse be thrown in the hole, but she’d had to _know._ Had to be sure he was truly gone.

“Gods, just when I think you can’t surprise me anymore.” Jon murmurs.

“He was trying to turn me against Arya. Turned us against the Lannisters. He did so many things, Jon. I couldn’t let him-”

“No. You couldn’t. He had to go. I’d feared that he might…but you did it. You did good.” His grip on her falters, and he puts one of his hands on her cheek.

And despite the cold, Sansa feels a heat rising up to her face. Unsure of what it means, what it is that makes this so…

“Come along, then. One more reunion. _Not_ with Petyr Baelish.” She smiles, tugging him along to the centre of the Godswood.

“Is that…?” Jon asks when they get there, staring at Nymeria, who is lying quietly in her den.

“It most certainly is.” Sansa nods.

“Well, how about that. The last time I saw her she was learning how to fetch gloves.” There’s a smile on his face. A real one. A relaxed one.

“She’ll not be doing that any of that anymore.” Sansa supposes that next person who tries that might not ever need to wear gloves again.

“She’s gotten big. Really big. I mean…really, really…Oh. She’s not fat, is she?” Well, Jon certainly got to that conclusion quicker than the rest of them.

Perhaps it’s the prolonged exposure to direwolves. Perhaps it’s just because Nymeria’s been eating better and is sat comfortably now, rather than baring her teeth at anyone and everyone who dares to approach.

“No, she’s not.”

Ghost carefully approaches Nymeria. He is, aside from Arya, the only one who can. She’ll abide his presence, and even the occasional lick at the face, but no more than that.

“Well, that’s definitely…interesting.” Jon grins.

“Complicated too.” Sansa adds, because it is. Because she’s not going to expose Nymeria and her pups to people she doesn’t know.

“Might as well. What’s one more complication on the long list we’ve already got?” He runs his hand through his hair. 

“Might as well.” Sansa agrees. Because between the Dragon Queen and the Night King, Nymeria and her pups are, if nothing else, a welcome distraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dothraki translation: "Get lost, you little whore!"


	8. A Shut Door

The Great Hall, Shireen thinks, is becoming a very familiar place to her these days. In part, because it’s got the biggest hearth and is therefore the warmest place for her and the other women to do most of their sewing together, but it’s also where they break their fast and meet for supper.

And that’s enough time spent there as it is. Now, however, she’s also there whenever there’s a large political meet planned. Normally, those are done by daylight, and to be fair, they _had_ tried to plan this particular council on the day of the Dragon Queen’s arrival.

But that hadn’t worked out. Not at all. So, instead of wasting the precious few daylight hours they have, Sansa had thought to set their next attempt at a formal introduction in the evening.

Which is why they find themselves here now; Shireen’s been done with her supper for about half an hour now, but there are still men in the Hall eating, and the meet won’t start until they are done and the Dragon Queen is willing to join them.

So, instead, she is playing cards with Bran, who has also finished his meal early. He’d refused at first, saying that she would not enjoy their game. However, Shireen finds that the opposite is true, because she’s not _just_ playing an opponent, she’s also playing against her own good guesses as to what Bran may or may not see.

Playing, and losing sorely.

To her right is Ser Davos, occasionally trying to give her advice. Unfortunately, his techniques are not proving any better than Shireen’s are. On the other side of Bran there’s Sansa and Brienne, who are talking amongst themselves.

To Shireen’s left is Arya, who refuses to tell her anything, but who occasionally glances at the game with a mysterious grin on her face. Like she _knows_ what card Bran is about to play. Next to her, at the very end of the table is Jon, squeezed in to fit on the bench, talking to Gilly and Sam sitting across from him.

“So, how many do you think there might be?” Jon asks. They’re pretending to talk about one of the dogs in the kennel, but everyone at their end of the table knows it’s really about Nymeria.

“About four pups, if I had to wager a guess.” Sam shrugs.

“Four? One for every Stark child! Just as before!” Arya eyes are glittering with excitement.

“I’m not a Stark.” Jon huffs.

“Oh, shut it. We need everyone of the family. After all, Starks are a rare breed nowadays.” There’s sombre note hidden behind the joke. One that everyone would rather not speak about.

“I already have a direwolf. Why would I need another -” Jon abruptly cuts himself off, seemingly remembering that they’re talking about the ‘kennel dogs’. “- pet… I don’t need another pet.”

A soft rumble from underneath the table indicates that Ghost understood what was being said, or at least knew enough to object to it.

“Fine, I suppose I’ll just have to take a _second_ one for myself then. Because _I_ don’t mind having two.” Arya snorts, and taps at one of Shireen’s cards.

“Don’t do that, you’ll help him!-” She peeps. “- He’s already beaten me three times now!”

“Four.” Bran corrects, voice still wholly neutral and face completely serene as he lays down yet another trump card.

He’s smirking on the inside, though. Shireen is _sure_ of it.

“Another round, then.” She’ll get the hang of this.

Eventually.

One round become two, though. And two become three, and by that time, all the plates are empty, the bannermen are quietly murmuring to one another and Shireen still hasn’t won anything other than the knowledge that you shouldn’t play cards with a Three Eyed Raven.

It is at that point, though, that a servant approaches Jon. He whispers something into his ear and just like that, the King in the North becomes, well, _the King in the North_ again _._

Gone is the brother of Arya and Sansa, the friend of Sam and the sworn lord of Ser Davos. He can no longer loiter at their table, which is at the side of the Hall, but has to make towards the table at the center, the one that’s slightly raised above the others and the one that has been empty up until now.

It’d been a request of Queen Daenerys that only the queen and the warden might sit on the raised platform, since there is no official throne at Winterfell for her. Or at least, that’s the official reason. Sansa has told Shireen that it’s also a clear and obvious retaliation for the little feat they pulled during the Dragon Queen’s arrival.

When Shireen had asked Sansa if she was alright with sitting at a table for the lower born, Sansa had merely shrugged and told her that if that was the price to pay for keeping _both_ of their most important allies, it was certainly worth it. (Shireen had also asked who that second important ally was, but apparently that’s she herself. Which is still an odd feeling to handle).

Arya had been wholly nonplussed by the new rule, laughing and declaring that she preferred to sit at the other tables anyway. When Shireen had asked Bran about it, he’d told her that power is only where men perceive it to be and that a platform can be as much a throne as it can be the stocks.

She interpreted that as him not caring either.

In fact, the only one who seems to care is Jon. Because Jon cannot officially sit with his family now. Well, so far, it hasn’t stopped him from shoving Arya’s skinny frame further down the bench and positioning himself on the far end of the table anyway. But the servant must’ve told him that the Dragon Queen’s arrival is imminent, because Jon is all but dragging his feet up to the two remaining chairs at the high table.

Sure enough, not a moment later, the queen and her men enter the hall in full ornate. She doesn’t waste a moment looking at Shireen, or anyone else at their table for that matter, and instead heads directly to Jon, the smile on her face reserved for him alone.

He dutifully holds out his rough, gloved hand and accepts her smooth, slender one with a gentle gesture. Even going so far as to pull back a seat for her. It all seems to work wonders on her mood.

Jon doesn’t sit down, though. Not yet. Instead, he addresses the whole of the Hall first.

 “Right. If we can all behave this time around. -” There’s a ripple of soft grumbling echoing throughout the Hall. “- Then _maybe_ we can discuss our enemy in the North. _Together._ ”

Jon doesn’t let the noise distract him from the goal he intends to pursue.

“Queen Daenerys has gifted us with the Dragonglass needed to fight the dead, and has pledged her formidable army to our cause. Soon, the truce we brokered with Queen Cersei will bring us more men to help fight the Night King.”

The grumbles turn into outright shock and disbelief. The bannermen may have been willing to put up with Daenerys Targaryen, but they will not abide the presence of the Lannisters.

Not after everything that’s happened.

“Fuck the Lannisters! I’ll stick a sword in them before I stick it in a dead man!” One of the Lords shouts.

“Why don’t we send those bastards in first! Let the south take care of the monsters beyond the Wall for once!” Another one adds.

“We haven’t forgotten what that shit of a Joffrey did! Have you!?” A third tries.

Meanwhile, the queen and her friends are starting to look disturbed at every complaint that’s slung about. Because more and more noises of dissent seem to be spreading throughout the crowd. Even Arya looks sincerely tempted to join them at this point. Sansa on the other hand, has a carefully construed mask of neutrality on her face.

 “ _Shut your traps already!_ ” Jon bellows, slamming his hand on the table.

It does the trick.

None of bannermen seem to have expected this much from their quiet, mildly-mannered king.

“Thank you. -” Jon heaves when the silence returns to the hall. “- Now, let me be clear; we can either choose to live together or die alone. And I for one, would rather like to do the former. Anyone who doesn’t is free to leave Winterfell and face winter by themselves.”

He pauses, looking for men who might choose to get up and go.

None of them do.

“We are not who we were in summer. We know the Lannisters now, know what they can do. I think I speak for all of us when I say that any step out of line on their behalf will be their last. Until then, we have the armies, the means and the dragons to face the Night King.”

“And all we had to do to get it was kneel to another southern ruler.” Lady Mormont speaks up, because Jon might be able to hush the Lords, but Lyanna is in a league all by herself. 

The king in the North closes his eyes, jaw a line of tension, but before he can start this argument, another man speaks up. Queen Daenerys’s knight. The only one she has.

“Perhaps I’ve been gone for too long, but when I was here last, we did not let children speak for our Houses.” He purrs, giving Lyanna a dangerous glance.

“No. We let traitors and slavers speak for them instead. -” Lady Mormont barks at him. “- Or did you think I would not recognize the cowardly stench on you, _cousin_?”

That certainly raises some eyebrows, most of all on the queen’s bodyguard himself. He must not’ve realized that he was related to Lady Mormont. Or did not think that she might know him to be. 

“Can I just say,-” Another surprising voice adds to the conversation; Samwell stands up. Face red by the sudden burst of attention. “- Whatever ser Jorah may or may not have done in the past, I can assure you that he’s suffered enough for it.”

His gaze wanders to Shireen, although she’s not entirely sure why.

“I don’t care! I’m not here to talk about the self-professed importance of ‘ _ser Jorah_ ’. When this is all over he can fuck off back to wherever he’s been. Until then, I suggest that he keeps to himself so someone else can tell me _why_ I should be following the orders of a _Targaryen_.”

There’s a lethal glint in the Dragon Queen’s eyes and for a moment Shireen is sure that this will, at best, end like it did two days ago, with drawn swords and harsh threats.

However, just as two days ago, Sansa is there to leash in the danger.

“Lady Mormont. You name the queen a Targaryen and say it is a reason not to trust her. Correct?” Sansa stands up, staring at the young girl like a stern, older sister might.

“You’re bloody right I do.” Lady Mormont sneers.

“Well, as I recall, when we first met, you named me a Bolton and a Lannister and said I wasn’t to be trusted. Now, I believe that I have since proved you wrong on those accounts, haven’t I?” her voice is all steel and none of the kindness Shireen has grown so used to hearing.

“Aye, you had the blood of a Stark in you after all.”  There’s a little huff, indicating that even the unwavering Lyanna might have to ease her pace.

“Good. All we ask is that you give Daenerys Targaryen the same chance you gave us; the chance to fight alongside of you. -” There’s a small smile on Sansa’s face. “- I might have the Stark blood, but even our family finds its roots in strangers.”

She turns to rest of the Hall.

“I’m sure that by now, you’ve all heard our friends from the Free Folk sing the song of Bael the bard?”

In response, the Northern men and women nod. A few knights of Vale do as well.

But what an odd turn to take. Sure, Shireen’s heard the song. Gilly once sung it to put her baby to sleep. However, this is neither the time nor the place for a lullaby, so why bring it up now?

“Bael is an ancestor of my siblings and I. A stranger in Winterfell, who was offered a beautiful blue winter rose by lord Brandon Stark. -” Sansa cautiously proceeds, with an ever so slight tremor in her voice. “- And you know what happened? He took it. He took that rose with gratitude and love, and became a part of our family through it.”

“Sansa, that’s not how the story goes…” Arya whispers so quietly that Shireen is sure she’s the only one who can hear it.

“Now, we are in the same position as Bael. Here we are, being given a beautiful blue winter rose by Queen Daenerys, and I would urge us all to take that rose exactly like Bael did. So that we might become a family. If a slightly unconventional one.” She finishes, breathless, and to a Hall that is completely and utterly silent.

Even Lady Mormont has nothing left to say, staring at Sansa with large, comprehending eyes. Because Arya is right, that _isn’t_ how the song goes. Oh, Bael accepted the rose, alright, but not with love and gratitude. He took it with the intent to steal Lord Stark’s daughter away, and once he had made off with that which the Lord valued most, he’d left him only the rose.

Bael was not just a bard.

Bael was a trickster.

Just as the Starks with his blood intend to be.

And all the Northerners know that now.

“Fine. I suppose I can accept a rose like that.” Lyanna Mormont spits. The anger and discontent now nothing more than a charade.

The meet goes on after that, the bannermen’s opposition simply a formality, and the longer they sit there, the more content and happy the Dragon Queen seems to become.

Exactly as planned.

* * *

 

By the time Sansa makes it back to her own room. It’s late. Very, very late. The candles have melted down to stumps and the entire castle has retreated into silence. A peaceful one this time, because the Dragon Queen has been appeased, the bannermen have been accepting and even the Dothraki and the Free Folk are not stirring trouble tonight.

As she undresses, Sansa marvels at how far they’ve come.

How well this all seems to be going.

It’s a house of cards.

A castle of snow made in summer.

They will pay dearly for the lies they’ve told. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not in the way they anticipate, but it will happen. As surely as Littlefinger paid for his.

And with that unsettling thought firmly lodged in the back of her head, Sansa gets into bed, already knowing that sleep will not come easily tonight.

She tosses and turns.

Sighs loudly.

And then, just for good form, pokes her toes at the large shape of Ghost, who’s lying at the foot end of her bed.

It’s been a bit surprising to see him follow her into the bedroom these past few days as he always does, like nothing has changed, like they haven’t all been upended by their guests.

Because really, he ought to be sleeping in Jon’s chambers. Then again, Sansa doesn’t really know whose chambers Jon is sleeping in these days.

Doesn’t want to think about it either.

So, perhaps Ghost isn’t really sure where else he’s supposed to stay at night. Which is honestly not a problem, because he radiates enough heat to negate the need for extra blankets or another log on the fire. Blankets and logs that could be better used elsewhere.  

It’s practical, first and foremost. But if Sansa’s truly honest with herself, it also makes her feel safe. Because when Ghost is right there, lying on the other side of the bed, she no longer has to hold on to the irrational fear that Ramsay Bolton himself might come to her at night again. Might do things to her. So many unspeakable things.

But no, she doesn’t need to think about that.

If even the memory of him were try, Ghost would rip him to pieces, and he would do so much faster than any hungry dog ever could.

Of course, there’s always that one half hour, during the deepest part of the night, when Ghost trots off to do his midnight patrol.

He’s usually quiet enough not to wake Sansa anymore, but tonight, the combination of an uneasy slumber and an unusually loud tap of the door unsettle her back into the waking world.

“Ghost. -” She murmurs, still half asleep. “- shhh.”

Knowing that he isn’t there anymore, Sansa stretches her legs, intending to fill up the full length of the bed.

Intending to, because her foot bumps up against a large, warm wolf-shaped body. Now, there’s no responding growl or huff, but she can feel the direwolf squirm a bit in place. A complaint of movement, rather than in speech.

But how can Ghost be here, if he’s just left on his patrol?

Is it Lady, then, who is sleeping in her bed?

As soon as the thought crosses her mind, Sansa wakes up fully.

Lady is dead.

Ghost is in her bed.

There’s someone else in the hallway.

She’s out of her bed and already putting on a robe before she can remember the risk of facing _something_ out there in the dark by herself. So, before going to take a peek, Sansa quickly heads back to the bed, staring into Ghost’s sleepy red eyes.

“If I scream, you’ll come to save me, right?”

Ghost yawns.

“Good man.” She tells him.

When she opens the door, the only light is that of her candle. There’re no torches, no movement, nothing. Just the darkness.

And an ever so subtle creak further down the hallway.  Then another. And another.

Someone is walking past the doors.

Taking a deep breath, Sansa carefully heads out of her room, glancing at a curious Ghost once more before leaving him behind.

Every step feels like one to many. In this midnight world, Winterfell feels like it is still occupied, by the Boltons or by something much, much worse.

Then, the light begins to bounce off a figure, creating a litany of shadows on the wall and the sudden dreadful realisation that if Sansa had intended to stay hidden, she shouldn’t have brought a bright beacon to signal her presence.

The silhouette of a man stands in front of her, back seemingly turned to her, one hand carefully laid on the doors he passes.

But she knows those shoulders.

Recognizes the way in which they move.

And there is not a darkness in Westeros or Essos that would stop her from recognizing those black curls.

_Jon._

Now, suddenly fearless, Sansa takes another step forward.

She reaches close enough, apparently, because Jon sluggishly turns around, blinking against the light as if he’d been sleepwalking.

As if he’s done this for many, many nights now.

She’s talked about the wolf dreams with her siblings. How Bran was able to walk again through Summer’s body. How Arya knew that Nymeria was thriving in the Riverlands. And how Sansa sometimes gets glimpses of something beyond a veil no-one can see. Something wholly _different_ from the living world. It’s a subject that comes up sometimes, when it’s just the three of them.

But then, if they have those dreams, why shouldn’t Jon have them either?

_It seems Ghost isn’t the one who’s been going on these patrols at night._

Finally, she knows why he’s been doing it. Why he only goes at night, and why he won’t listen to a direwolf’s name.

“Jon?”

“Wha? Sansa?” He’s not wearing much more than a pair of breeches and a ratty old shirt.

“What are you doing up at this hour?” She asks, already knowing the answer.

“Making sure everyone’s alright. -” Jon croaks. “- I think.”

“We are. You saw us just a few short hours ago. The bedrooms aren’t five kingdoms away anymore.”

He nods, like that logic makes perfect sense to him.

“Goodnight, Jon.”

“Night.” He murmurs, before stumbling back to one bedroom or another.

“Gods know we’ll all need some rest in the days to come.” Sansa whispers to herself when she wanders back to her own bed.

Ghost is still at the foot end. Awake, but wholly at peace. He must’ve known it was Jon out in hallways.

“You could’ve told me.” She lets her hand glide over his large head.

In response, the direwolf huffs and settles back onto the blankets. No doubt happy that his master doesn’t take him wandering about in the late hours of the night anymore.


	9. A Winged Arrival

It’s rather wonderous what a difference a day can make. For example, it was only yesterday that the Dothraki saw fit to insult and harass Shireen in the absence of their queen. Today, and more importantly after last night’s meet, they don’t seem to dare. Not while the Mother of Dragons is keeping a close eye on her new flock.

And she really does seem to consider the people of Winterfell as just that. For the first time since arriving, Daenerys has been up and about, suddenly _everywhere_ and all kind smiles and curious glances. Even Shireen has been on the receiving end of one. This morning, while they were breaking their fast, the queen had given her a gentle nod from her place up at the high table.

Shireen had smiled and had turned back to her book, unsure what the gesture meant.

Still, it’s important for everyone to be on their best behaviour, Northern, Southern, Dothraki, Unsullied or Free Folk. Because they are expecting the last of their very imposing guests, and if something goes wrong now, well, the dragons might not be so easily convinced as their mother was.

Despite the perceived danger, and what Shireen has read on the volatility of dragons, she’s still standing at the battlements alongside Bran and Gilly to see if they can spot them yet. If there are any black dots at the horizon to signal their arrival.

It’s a shame Ser Davos and Sam can’t be here, but they’ve been ordered to instruct the Free Folk about the dragons because Jon couldn’t. Because he’s right there, down below, just outside the North Gate with Sansa and Arya, representing Winterfell. With them is, of course, Daenerys Targaryen, Tyrion Lannister, Ser Jorah Mormont and the queen’s pretty handmaiden, who still looks unsettled by the cold.

Which, Shireen can relate to that. She’s also been layering cloak upon cloak these past days.

What’s more interesting than her shivers though, is the fact that the handmaiden keeps glancing up at them. Or no, not at _them,_ but at the battlements, at the Unsullied man standing a good few feet away from Shireen, Bran and Gilly.

He’s got a severe frown on his face and is trying his best to stare at the horizon, even if his gaze constantly keeps gliding towards the handmaiden instead.

Perhaps he doesn’t like her.

Or maybe the stern expression is just what he always looks like. After all, Shireen hasn’t seen anything else from the Unsullied men. Not that she has seen much of them at all, because unlike their Dothraki companions, they mostly keep to themselves.

However, with the queen’s new visibility, they too have started mingling with the rest of Winterfell.

The Unsullied man must’ve noticed Shireen looking at the pair of them, because he gives her a glare. She doesn’t quite know what to do with that, but decides that her strategy with the Dragon Queen is as good as any.

She smiles and briefly waves.

That, if anything, seems to confuse the man even more.

Thankfully, both of them are spared from any more befuddled interactions, because sure enough, there is something coming towards them.

“There! There, what’s that?!” Gilly crows, son held tightly in her arms.

A shape in the distance. one might think it to be a raven at first. But no, it’s too big, moving far too fast.

It has to be _them._ The dragons that were promised.

Two dots, growing ever larger.

There’s a bit of an uproar as the people of Winterfell begin to notice their imminent arrival. For example, the men who were filling the new ‘dragonpit’ with copious amounts of meat now quickly scramble back to the gates, behind Jon, Sansa and Arya.

Inside the gates, most of the women and children are heading towards the sturdy structure of the Great Hall. Meanwhile, the Dothraki are looking emboldened, taking all but ownership over the courtyard, no doubt because they know these dragons.

They trust them.

There’s a roar, one that carves its way deeply into Shireen’s heart, because she may have read about the dragons and their fearsome powers, but the thought of a fire breathing titan scares her now more than it ever did.

Mostly because of the _fire breathing._ But the promise of that many teeth don’t make her feel much better either.

“They’re bigger than Wun Wun. -” Gilly whispers, covering baby Sam’s head with her hand. “- I didn’t expect them to be bigger than Wun Wun.”

“They don’t belong here.” Bran tells them and Shireen wonders if by _here_ he means ‘the North’ or ‘this world altogether’ because either one seems plausible.

They seem like chimerical beasts, or no, she doesn’t think they ought to be called beasts. Beast implies that they might be an animal of some kind.

They’re not.

Nymeria and Ghost are animals, if a bit larger than expected. They belong to Westeros, to the North. They growl when they’re mad, they howl when they’re sad, they eat when they’re hungry and they curl up to one another for warmth when they’re cold.

She can’t imagine these two behemoths doing the same, not when their shadow looms threateningly over Winterfell.

They look like they exist to destroy, to feast and to feast and to feast upon the world until nothing is left and she can’t imagine them even feeling the cold.

After all, they are fire made flesh.

Winterfell seems to shake when they finally set down. Shireen inches closer to Bran and Gilly, and notices that Jon, down below, does the same to Arya and Sansa.

When she’d read the stories as a child, she’d wanted to see them, had wanted to know the splendour of dragons for herself.

When word had reached her that not one, but _three_ of them, had hatched in their time, in their world, she’d been curious, had stared at the stone dragons of her home, wondering if these creatures were in any way comparable.

The answer is that they aren’t. Those statues didn’t burn and toss up dead animals to swallow them whole. Those stone dragons didn’t screech as loudly and bone-shudderingly as the real dragons do.

And the smell of burning meat…

Shireen had never thought she could hate the smell of burning meat as much as she does now.

“Can we go back inside?” She murmurs.

Gilly nods. Her words having run out as well.

“Yes. -” Bran confirms. “- it’s time for the next step.”

Her feet are unsteady underneath her as she grips the handle of Bran’s chair, a sense of nausea rising up in her stomach.

She doesn’t look back at the dragons, doesn’t want to and doesn’t need to, she knows that they are devouring everything they’ve been given.

They pass the unsullied man again. The stern frown on his face is a little less severe now. Even he is not unaffected by the dragons, but perhaps, when he looks at Shireen, she can see something like empathy in his eyes.

She wonders what he’s seen those dragons do. If Queen Daenerys had freed the slaves of Meereen, she must’ve done so with her dragons and alongside this man.

It’s easy to imagine him fighting the Slave Masters.

It’s even easy to see Queen Daenerys do that.

But the dragons? Shireen simply can’t combine the brutality of the dragons alongside the justice needed to free the slaves. It’s too much of a mismatch.

Once they’re inside the dark corridors of Winterfell, where the smell of fire is less pervasive and the flames are no longer visible, Shireen reasons with herself that she must be wrong. They don’t call Daenerys Targaryen the mother of dragons for nothing. If she’s freed the slaves, she must’ve got a good handle on what her children can and cannot do.

Or at least, Shireen really, truly hopes that she does.

* * *

 

Sansa hides her trembling hand in the folds of her skirts and furiously wills herself not to panic.

She cannot panic.

Not now.

Not here.

Not when the whole of Winterfell is looking to her to keep her composure.

But by the Old Gods and the New ones, what have they gotten themselves into? Who in the realm of Westeros would think to trick a woman carrying the moniker _Dragon Queen?_  

This was a foolish endeavour. An utterly stupid idea. A notion that will all get them devoured by dragons.

_Dragons._

How in the name of the Seven are they meant to get past monsters such as that?

Well, it’s not like they have much of a choice now, do they? 

They need the dragons to defeat the Night King according to Jon. Two wrongs that are somehow meant to make a right. The unnatural that is meant to fight the unnatural.

Even if both of these ephemeral parties are going to go through their winter reserves quicker than one can say ‘Valar Morghulis’. That much she can judge by the way those creatures ate their way through the sheep they’d put out for them.

Speaking of which…

She’ll have to send word to the farmers who provided them with the meat. She’d already given her thanks to them and paid them well, but there’s no doubt in her mind that they’ll have to call upon them again for more livestock.

Lest those dragons turn their eyes towards the populace.

And the worst part is that Sansa is not the only one who seems fearful of the Dragon Queen now. She can see it in the eyes of the maids and the men alike. They can feel the terror in their hearts as Sansa does. Now, she trusts the bannermen to keep the truth about their trickery against Daenerys Targaryen quiet, but what if one of them becomes too frightened, what if one of them might slip a word to her in order to save themselves.

_What if, what if, what if…_

There is a way, though, to keep that from happening. If their people have someone to rally behind, someone who is on equal footing with Queen Daenerys, they’ll not abandon their loyalties. But in order for that to happen, they’ll have to be convinced. They’ll have to believe that what they’re doing here will have a chance of success.

And that? That job falls upon Sansa and her siblings now.

If the people, all of them, trust that the Starks are able to match Daenerys every step of the way, then, and only then, can this endeavour be saved.

 _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._ Her father’s voice echoes in her mind.

Truly, as a child, she’d never thought much of his words, quarrelling with her brothers and sisters as she did.

Back then, they were summer children who’d never grasped what it meant that winter would be coming for them. Never gave it a second thought. However, somehow, without realizing it, they’d all retained the words, they’d stowed them away until the day they’d needed them most.

Remarkable, really. How those very specific parts of their parents still live so vividly within them all.

And so, Sansa straightens her back, clenches her fists and puts a bright and confident smile on her face, calmly nodding and greeting whoever she meets in the hallways.

However, one of those people is not so easily persuaded by the act of playing a Lady.

“You need to come with me.” Arya blurts out, panic in her voice.

“What is it?”

“You need to come to the crypts…I…I can’t explain it, but you _really_ need to come to the crypts _now._ ”

If she’d asked this of Sansa a few months earlier, when there was still Littlefinger trying to manipulate them both, Sansa might have been wary to go to the crypts with Arya by herself. But, lessons have been learned and as it stands, Sansa thinks that out of everyone here, she trusts Arya the most.

So instead of asking meaningless questions within earshot of the servants, Sansa merely nods and follows her sister.

The relief on Arya’s face can be read clearly. Which means that whatever might be in the crypts, Arya felt that she would need someone else to help her with it.

As they descend the steps and move further past their ancestors graves, Sansa can feel the temperature rising ever so slightly. Funny really, most caverns grow colder as you go deeper into them, which is why many of the kingdoms in Westeros stash their foods and wines in long, low cellars. Not the crypts, though. Rationally, she knows it’s the hot springs that surround them, but a part of her believes it to be their family, warm gazes keeping the cold at bay.

They walk until they reach the statue of their aunt Lyanna, and it is there that Sansa gets to witness the trouble as it is happening.

First and foremost, Jon. He’s sunken down with his back against the statue, eyes covered by his hands and breaths coming so laboriously that Sansa thinks he might be drowning on dry land. By his side stands Sam, evidently back from his gathering with the Free Folk. He’s got a helpless look on his face that speaks of both immense regret and guilt.

And then there’s _Bran._

Unconcerned and untouched by the emotions surrounding him. Yet, despite his detachment, Sansa can easily guess who the instigator of this mess has been, _and it isn’t Samwell._ Sansa glares at him, stepping over the fallen flowers and the broken stone dish that she’d left at her aunt’s statue not a week ago.

“Jon. -” She murmurs, sitting on her hunches in front of him. “- What’s wrong?”

No answer.

“Jon?” She tries again, carefully wrapping her fingers around his wrists, willing him to stop hiding himself from them.

It works, to some extent. She can’t see his face yet, but he’s _trying_ to talk to her at least.

“M-my mother… My mother…” he heaves.

Sansa casts a helpless look at her sister.

“She’s his mother.” Arya points at the statue of aunt Lyanna.

A lot of thoughts begin to race through Sansa’s mind all at once.

Father had lied.

Had mother known? No, she couldn’t have.

If she had, she might not have shunned Jon in the way that…

No.

So father had lied.

Had lied to her mother.

Had lied to King Robert.

Had lied to Jon Arryn.

Had lied to _everyone in the realm._

Images of Queen Cersei and her brother come to mind, because if aunt Lyanna is Jon’s mother, then…

Her stomach protests violently at the very thought of it.

“Our father…?” She glances back at Arya.

“Is not his father.” There’s so much grief in Arya’s voice that it sounds as if she’s truly lost a brother.

Still, the battlefield inside of Sansa seems to settle ever so slightly. It isn’t as grotesque as that then. But if not Eddard Stark, then who?

Her mind wanders to the stories she remembers hearing. About her grandfather and her uncle. How the rebellion was started. Why they went south and why they were burned by the mad king.

Her father is not Jon’s father, which means…

“Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Jon finally looks at her when she says it, eyes red with tears, face ashen with shock and dread.

And just like that Sansa remembers what they’re doing. What is happening above them. _Who_ it is that Jon has let into his home and into his bed.

Her stomach starts rioting again.

“Oh, Jon.” She tells him, gently kissing his forehead, because he didn’t know. Because he can’t have. Because this must be destroying him. All his deeply seeded honour and all his carefully laid out plans have gone to the dogs _just like that_.

Something like anger boils up in her heart. Not at Jon. Certainly not, but at the real culprits of this mess. Their disingenuous forebears.

Not just at them, though. It also wills to be unleashed at the two men who thought it wise to share this poisonous knowledge with them far too late.

“You two. -” She snaps at Bran and at Samwell. “- Talk.”

“There was a book. At the citadel. In it I found…Well, no Gilly _found_ it. It said that the marriage between Rhaegar and Elia had been annulled and that he’d wed Rhaegar and Lyanna….and…and then, you know, Bran told me that Jon wasn’t…” Sam trails off, glancing at Jon.

“Jon is the heir to the Seven Kingdoms.” Bran drones on.

“Seven Hells! -” Sansa hisses, before remembering her manners. “- You didn’t _think_ to tell us this sooner!? Perhaps _before_ we’d announced our intended deceit to _all the bannermen_ or before we’d let to fire breathing _monsters_ move in next to us!?”

“If I’d had, you wouldn’t have been able to keep Daenerys Targaryen here.” He sounds completely unapologetic and she has to stifle the urge to throttle him right there in his chair.

“You’re damn right we wouldn’t have. -” Arya growls. “- This is bloody insane _!_ ”

She’s right, Sansa decides, but so is Bran. None of them would’ve done what they did if they’d known about this. Which means there would not have been dragons to defend them. They would not have had dragon glass or an army of Unsullied and Dothraki to help them defeat the Night King.

For better or for worse, they have that now.

And it is up to them to keep it.

Because if even the slightest hint of this reaches the ears of the woman who wishes to be heir of the Iron Throne but apparently _isn’t…_

“Our words here shall not leave these crypts. Am I clear? -” Sansa starts, looking at Bran, Samwell and Arya. “We can’t tell anyone about this. Not if we wish to make it through the Long Night.”

All three of them are nodding.

“And…-” She turns to Jon for this. Because this is the hardest, the cruellest part of it all. “- And we must do whatever it takes to keep the lie alive. Just as father did.”

“Please. Please don’t ask me to bed…to do…I-I cannot…” Jon stumbles on the words, looking at her with big, wet eyes.

“No. I would never ask _that_ of you, but we need to keep the Night King at bay and you’re…” She pauses, wanting to say _you’re the only one who can,_ but that isn’t fair. She can’t put all of that on Jon alone.

“I am the sword in the darkness.” He murmurs, staring at his hands.

“I am the watcher on the walls.” Sam quietly adds.

“I am the shield that guards the realms of men.” Jon finishes, a grim edge of determination has taken over his voice.

“Thank you.’ She whispers, not sure what else to say.

He avoids her eyes though, and quickly gets up, trying to regain his composure, to bring back the King in the North they all need so badly right now.

“We should go. -” He says, sounding not completely even-keeled, but getting there all the same. “- Come along, Arya, I’d like to discuss how you’ve been training the civilians.”

“Sounds good to me.” Arya follows him out, giving him uncertain glances as they go.

Sansa meanwhile, closes her eyes momentarily. Then, she slowly gets up from where she’d been crouched at the statue, wiping her hands and moving to pick up the small feather that had fallen from aunt Lyanna’s cold, stone grasp.

_Another lie. Another secret. Another heir to iron throne within the walls of Winterfell._

She wordlessly starts heading for the passage outwards, doesn’t look back at Bran and Samwell. Not quite ready to forgive them yet for letting everyone walk straight into this new mess without telling them.

Mere minutes ago, she’d worried that they might not be able to match the power and the influence of Daenerys Targaryen, but now, it seems they’ve had a better claimant living amongst them all along.

Sansa walks out of the crypts and stares at the big blue sky above them.

_Only the Gods might know where this will end now…_


	10. A Stirring Hope

She stares deep into his eyes, and he’s staring back into hers. Trying to find some sort of resemblance. Something that might help them decipher this mystery between them. No-one’s told them the answer, but it’s meant to be there. She knows it is.

Still, all Shireen can come up with is…

“You look a bit like my father.”

“Do I? I suppose I should, right?” Gendry Waters replies, squinting his eyes.

“Aye. I agree. You do have a bit of Stannis in there. More of Robert though.” Ser Davos smiles. No small wonder, because this whole thing was his idea.

Introducing Shireen to her cousin. Her _real_ cousin.

Yesterday, she didn’t have any family left.

Today, she has a cousin.

Life at Winterfell can be strange like that.

Especially when there’s a certain Onion Knight who takes it upon himself to reunite whatever’s apparently left of the family.

“King Robert was fatter.” Shireen shrugs. Not that she’d seen much of her uncle in her life. He wasn’t exactly keen to visit her.

No-one really was.

“Well, he did spend most of his life drinking half the wine kegs in King’s Landing.” Gendry agrees.

“What did you do for most of your life?” She asks, because she’s curious. Because she’s learned about most of her family members from her parents or from the servants. This one, though. Not many people knew about this one.

“Used to be a smith. Got sent along to join the Night’s Watch.”

But, wait…if he did that…?

“I didn’t see you at the Wall.”

“No, it didn’t…things didn’t work out. I ended up at the Brotherhood without Banners, but they sold me and then a Red Priestess tried to burn me. So, I went back to King’s landing. -” Gendry recites. “- What about you? How you’d end up here?”

“Well, I lived in Dragonstone for most of my life, before my father decided to wage war against the Others, so we went to the Wall. Then a Red Priestess tried to burn me.”

“How about that? I guess we do have something in common after all.” He snorts.

Shireen’s first impression of him is that he seems nice. Genuinely, truly _nice._ Not as blunt and harsh as father was. Though, he does sound pragmatic to a fault. He’s not as charismatic or as graceful as Lord Renly either, but there’s an authenticity to his kindness that she found lacking in her uncle, on the few occasions that she did see him.

“Are you…does my face bother you?” She asks, and it’s not something she does lightly. With most people, Shireen assumes that they are bothered by it, but politely ignore it or get used it along the way.

But if he’s the only family she’s got left, well, then she’d much rather know upfront if it’ll cause strife between them.

“Eh. I’ve seen worse. You don’t look nearly as bad as the Hound. With you it’s just some scars. With him, his ear’s nearly melted off and he’s an ugly fuck either way.”

“Please don’t swear in front of the lady.” Ser Davos murmurs.

“What? Oh, shite, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry. It’s alright. I’ve heard worse by now.” Shireen smiles. If he can be alright with her scars, she can be quite fine with his coarse language.

“Right, but, I’m not sure it’d be right for you to have a bastard hanging around you?”

“Why not?” She asks.

“Because, bastards are not exactly good for the reputation of a princess.” He scratches the back of his ear.

Meanwhile, Shireen thinks of Jon. Of the way he is with Arya. The way he cares about both of his sisters. And then she thinks of the Starks in general, how they all stay together, and how at this point, neither one would survive without the other.

Bastard or not. Shireen reckons it’ll be a sight better to have a cousin than it is to be alone.

“Maybe you don’t need to be a bastard?” After all, Ramsay Bolton had started carrying his name with a dark sense of pride that befitted the house.

“What else am I meant to be?” Gendry looks slightly confused.

“Legitimized.”  

She knows that the father of a bastard can legitimize him. She knows that the king can do it as well. Of course, in this case, the king and the father were one and the same, and they’re both dead now.

But everyone else is dead too. The only one who’s got something left to say about the Baratheons is Shireen herself. And as for a king? Well, the North still technically has one until Daenerys sits on the Iron Throne. 

Which, given the king’s own heritage, Shireen thinks he’s not going to refuse the request if they make it.

“Is that even possible?” Gendry looks to ser Davos, who seems to be mentally working down the same list as Shireen was.

“I…it might be? Not many people left to complain about it, I should think.” Still, she can see in his eyes that there’s one person who might.

One person who definitely would not be keen on more Baratheons in the world.

The Dragon Queen.

But hadn’t they come to an agreement?

Hadn’t Shireen shown Daenerys Targaryen that she’s no threat?

And if she isn’t, then why would her cousin be?

She supposes that matters regarding the crown are complicated. Will always be complicated.

Shireen can convince the Mother of Dragons, though. Surely. She’ll learn how. From her books and from Sansa. However, it won’t be today. First of all, because she hasn’t worked out the details yet, but also because Sam just came into the study, red-faced and huffing, staring at them like a White Walker just asked him what he’d like for supper.

“Shireen. I…you should definitely come with me. I can’t carry it all by myself, don’t know what they were thinking.”

“Go where?” Gendry asks, looking between the two of them.

“Oh, yes. You…You look strong too. You should come as well!” Sam nods, almost out of the door again.

“I’m sorry, but where is that they’re meant to go again?” Ser Davos tries, but Shireen has already made her decision. If Sam needs her help, she’ll be glad to give it. Even if that means putting on yet another cloak and preparing herself for the cold once more.

Gendry, it seems, has no problem following her lead and is right behind her within moments.

“With me! Obviously! Also, you should stay here, make sure no-one else gets in!” Sam calls out from the hallway.

 “Gets in where?!” Ser Davos shouts, but it’s no use. Sam is already speeding down the corridors with a purpose known only to himself.

* * *

 

“How is she?” Sansa asks, shivering underneath the many layers of cloth she’s wrapped in.

“Unsettled.” Arya murmurs.

She can’t imagine how bad the cold must be for her sister. After all, Sansa’s only been out here for an hour or so, while Arya has been in the Godswood since midnight.

Watching over Nymeria.

Waiting for the inevitable moment to come.

It’d started out quite calmly, or so she’d been told. Nymeria had only been pacing a little when Arya’d found her, sensing her wolf’s discomfort.  Then, she’d laid back in her den, just as she had for most days. During the night, she’d occasionally quaked with the first efforts of labour, but no more than that.

Sansa had visited, halfway through the night. To talk to Arya, to bring her some mulled cider and to find out what they were meant to do now.

Her sister had told her to go back inside.

This was going to take a while.

Sure enough, even now, with the first rays of the sun, nothing much has happened. Well, Nymeria’s has torn half her den apart in her frustration, but that’s really it. Still, Sansa thought it wise to inform Brienne about the happenings and told her to go find Sam because, well, if anyone is qualified to help them through this, it might be him.

The agitation that plagues Nymeria seems to have manifested itself in her brother too. Ghost was missing from Sansa’s bed last night, and is pacing impatiently at the treeline now, not daring to approach, but not wanting to stay away either.

And Jon, no doubt attracted by the commotion in his direwolf, has since arrived as well. Standing by as helplessly as the rest of them.

“What do we do now?” He sighs.

“We comfort her as best we can. We hope that nature will run the course it’s meant to run.” Sansa looks at him, trying to ignore the bags under his eyes, the fragility that he carries with him ever since that moment in the crypt. The one she’s not going to think about now.

 Jon is a Stark. He’s one of them and he’ll prove it once more by being here when he’s needed most.

“Let’s just hope that nature over there doesn’t intend to wreck half the Godswood before she’s done.” Jon grumbles, because Nymeria has just started to dig with a ferocity that might unearth one of the trees next to the den.

“She won’t. It’s not going to take long now.” Arya replies in a pained voice, gently approaching her direwolf.

And indeed, Nymeria’s destructive instincts die down not long after that. Instead, she lays down with her head in Arya’s lap, listening attentively to the loving compliments of her old companion.

“It’s alright! I’m here! I’m here!” Sam comes running out of the forest. He’s carrying a stack of linen and a bottle.

“That’s it? You didn’t bring more?” Arya raises her eyebrow.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got others carrying more. Good people. People we can trust.” He smiles. Arya gives him a doubtful look, but has enough faith in Sam to let it go.

“Can you see how far along she is?” Sansa finds that she can no longer contain her curiosity, inching closer to the direwolf until she’s sitting on her knees next to Samwell.

“Well, let’s see.” He very, _very_ gently lifts up Nymeria’s tail. It earns him an unintentional kick, but no snarling and no biting. The sight beneath makes Sansa a bit queasy, but apparently, it’s enough for Samwell to deduce what’s going on.

“Oh look, first pup’s nearly there.”

However, before the pup can arrive, they are blessed with another set of visitors. Shireen and Gilly, carrying a large stack of linen each, as well as Brienne and a young man Sansa doesn’t know. It’s not Podrick, in any case. They’re both carrying small cauldrons with steaming hot water. And while Brienne is more than equipped to carry hers. The young man seems to struggle, until Jon steps in and helps him carry it to the den.

Sansa dutifully lays the linen out into the den alongside Gilly and Shireen, but her eyes are firmly fixed on the conversation happening across from her.

Because the young man is staring at Arya. He seems completely stunned, in a good, cheerful sort of way. There’s a confused smile on his face, even though she hasn’t even so much as seen him yet. Not with the way she’s focussed on Nymeria.

“Arya?” He splutters, and what a reaction it gets him.

She looks up…and…is that colour on her cheeks, rising up amidst the bewilderment? She seems happy even, happier than Sansa has seen her in quite a while. If not for Nymeria, Sansa’s sure she’d be jumping him like she’d jumped Jon on his arrival.

_Who is this boy?_

“Gendry? You’re alive?!” the sheer joy in her voice does something to Sansa. That this is still possible, after everything they’ve been through.

“So are you!” and Gendry, whoever he is, seems equally happy, reaching out over Nymeria to touch her arm.

But poor Nymeria, who’s still struggling to bring her children into the world, decides to howl out her pain in the moment, shocking both Arya and Gendry back into the situation at hand.

“Right, big wolf, big teeth. We’ll talk later.” Gendry snorts, pulling back his arm.

“Later.” Arya promises, allowing Nymeria to get up and pace along her den.

Because the direwolf doesn’t have any attention for _whatever_ it is that’s happening between them. She’s wailing and whimpering, followed closely by Samwell.

And then, just like that. The moment’s there. Sam carefully catches the newborn pup as it comes out, and Nymeria turns around instantly. The sudden movement must scare Sam because he promptly drops the poor squirming little thing in Sansa’s lap instead.

Not that there’s anything to worry about, because all Nymeria wants to do is lick her pup clean of blood and bodily fluids.

Sansa is handed a piece of linen, she’s not sure by who, and helps the process along. It’s only then that it hits her. There’s a real, living, tiny direwolf pup in her hands. The likes of which she hasn’t had since her own died.

It’s such a beautiful pup too. Almost white, with a brown stripe across its back that reminds her greatly of Bran’s wolf Summer.

“Oh, look at that. -” Sam says, once Nymeria has turned towards Arya again. “- it’s a female.”

“It’s a lady.” Sansa corrects him with a trembling voice, before putting the pup against its mother.

A hand comes up at her shoulder while she watches the pup feed.

“A little lady, indeed.” Jon whispers, so close that she can feel his breath against her ear.

For an hour after that, things remain relatively calm, which Gilly ensures them is perfectly natural, after all, she’s read it in a book.

Arya and Gendry are talking to one another, in so much as Nymeria’s situation can allow it, while Jon briefly goes to check on the guards outside the Godswood. Brienne goes with him, but they’re back well before anything happens, so Sansa assumes all’s gone well.

Not that she’d notice if anything didn’t. No, she simply can’t keep her eyes of Nymeria and the pup. Wondering now, for the first time, if any of their wolves had missed their mother once they’d come to Winterfell. They’d been awfully young when father had brought them home, but quite a bit older than this.

She wonders if Nymeria remembers her mother at all. If Lady did. Wonders if Nymeria would’ve chosen a different spot to birth her children, had she not come to Winterfell so early in life.

And then, there’s no more time for wondering. It’s time for the next pup to be born. This one comes along more violently and more painfully than the last one, Nymeria whines louder and thrashes a bit.

Once the pup finally comes out, they all understand why.

Because that is a really, really big pup.

It’s almost twice as large as its older sister, and so much more colourful. There’s white, black, grey and brown smattered all over the wet fur. This time, when Samwell hands the pup to Sansa, she’s well prepared for the gore and Nymeria’s quick inspection.

“Another female!” Sam tells the others while Sansa puts the not-so-little one down by its mother.

In the hour that follows, Arya briefly abandons her place at Nymeria’s large head to admire the pups. Carefully stroking a finger over the firstborn and the big one.

“They’ll need names.” Arya says.

“We’ll think of something.” Sansa smiles back at her.

“What if they’re all girls?”

“Then at least this time, we’ll have the upper hand in the household.” She grins at her sister and Arya smirks back at her before looking at Jon.

He in turn, carefully assesses the pups, not quite touching them yet.

“They won’t be all girls.” He concludes, but what he’s based that on, Sansa doesn’t know.

It takes another hour before the next one born. Or rather, it’s not one, but two. They’re born so quickly after one another that it surprises everyone. The two pups that have come out are both grey and both significantly smaller than their huge sibling. They’re almost impossible to tell apart, at least until Samwell turns them over.

The oldest one is a male. The second one is a female.

“That’s four! Is that all of them?” Shireen asks, but Nymeria clearly is still shuddering, still ill at ease.

Sam carefully avoids the pups to lay a hand on her belly. He pokes at it a couple of times and then shakes his head.

“No. Not all of them. At least two more to go.”

“What? We’ll have more direwolf than Stark.” Arya laughs, not at all worried at the prospect.

And sure enough, the next half hour brings them another pup. This one is completely black and screaming hysterically when it comes into the world. Sansa is almost tempted to call it a wailing woman. But then-

“It’s another male!” Samwell tells them, holding up the caterwauling creature, which only quiets down once it’s feeding with its mother.

The sun is now well and truly high up in the sky, and Sansa guesses that the next one is born close to midday. Not long after the black one.

This one seems black at first too, but there’s more silver in its fur once Sansa has brushed it through the linen. It’s very quiet too, barely moves, barely breathes. Samwell worries over this one, picks it up while Nymeria keeps licking at it frantically.

It whimpers, though. Eventually. And then, at long last, Sam announces it as yet another male, quickly and gently putting it at the mother, where it successfully begins to feed.

“Is that it then? Is that the last one?” Gilly looks to Sam, but it’s Arya who answers.

“No. Not the last one. She’s not done yet.” Her hand is stroking over the snout of the poor, exhausted Nymeria.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take much longer after that and the final pup to come out is not nearly as much of a burden as the others. It’s very tiny, but whimpers as loud as the other pups do. Comically, it’s looks the most like the big one; a great variety of colours all blending into one another.

Samwell pronounces it as another female.

That makes four females, three males and one incredibly tired mother. Nymeria huffs once more and then lays her head back into Arya’s lap, quietly allowing the last pup to feed so it too can fall asleep like its siblings.

“Right-” Sam groans as he gets up, looking at his hands. “- I should probably…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but walks towards the cauldrons of now cold water, carefully washing off the blood.

Now, while Sansa doesn’t really want to leave Nymeria and the pups yet, she’s also well aware that her hands are covered in gods-know-what. Also, there’s an entire castle that’s probably wondering where the Stark family has gone to.

And so, with a heavy heart and a slightly crooked back, Sansa gets from her place by Nymeria’s side, following Sam towards the cauldron.

Her fingers protest against the cold water, but the blood must come off all the same. Once she’s done, Jon is there, handing her one of the few clean linens left.

“Thank you.” She tells him.

“No, thank you. You were the one sitting with Sam and Arya all this time.” He murmurs.

“Well, I reckon we needed everyone here. Not just the three of us. -” Speaking of which… “- I feel bad we didn’t bring Bran along. He ought to be here for this.”

“Oh, I don’t know -” Jon replies, looking up. “- I think he might have been.”

She follows his gaze towards the tree tops, and more importantly, at what appears to be the entire raven population of the North. hundreds of beady black eyes are currently staring down at them.

Yes, that really can’t be anyone else but Bran.

The unnerving sense of being watched by them is enough to draw Sansa away from the den for now.

“I should head back. People will be wondering where we are.” And a population that mixed and that anxious can only cause trouble when left alone.

“Right. I’ll introduce this one to his nephews and nieces and then I’ll go back myself.” He pats his hand on Ghost’s head.

“Thanks. -” She nods and turns away with an odd feeling inside her chest. Happiness, but different. “-Will you join me, Brienne?”

“Of course.” Her knight replies, but she sounds a little off as well. Sansa supposes that’s only natural. It’s not every day that you get to witness the birth of seven direwolves.

 _Seven._ She thinks as they make their way across the Godswood. _Seven direwolves. That’s a whole pack together._

Alongside Nymeria and Ghost, that makes nine wolves in total.

If they all grow up as big and as healthy as their mother and uncle, it’ll be sight to see them together.

She tries to imagine it as they head from the courtyard to her private chambers. The firstborn, the two coloured ones, the two grey ones, the black one and the silver and black one. Ghost with them and Nymeria too.

“Lady Sansa.” A treacherously soft voice calls out to her when she’s nearly at the door. It’s one she heard a lot when she was in King’s landing and it takes her right from her lovely daydream back to the Red Keep.

“Lord Varys. How may I help you?”

“I merely had a question, if my lady is not too busy with _other affairs._ ” He pointedly stares at her skirts, and Sansa promptly realizes that they must be smudged with blood and direwolf fluids.

“Oh, of course not. You’re always welcome to ask, my Lord.” She smiles, hoping to bluff her way out of explaining this mess.

“Why, thank you so much. See, I was thinking about the other night.” He obtrusively worms his way between Brienne and Sansa in order to walk next to her.

“And what about it drew your thoughts?” Her lungs constrict.

“During our council with the bannermen, you spoke of a song from the Free Folk. -” There is ice in her veins, because he cannot know, he _must not_ know. “- so, I thought, why not seek out this rare bit of culture amongst _those people._ ”

“Did you now?” Sansa’s not sure how she’s able to speak, given that her heart has now lodged itself into her throat.

“I did. Imagine my surprise when I found out that Bael stole a daughter right from under Brandon Stark’s watchful eye.”

_Oh Gods, he knows. He knows about it all._

“Is that so? -” Her voice isn’t allowed to tremble. It isn’t. “- I must’ve misheard the song, then. You know how fond I am of happy endings and loving families.”

_Please let that be enough to convince him._

_Please let it be enough._

“Well, I can’t fault you for that-” There’s a sickening smile on his face. “- I’m very fond of a happy ending myself, after all. Though I do wish it hadn’t been necessary for Bael to trick lord Stark. Wouldn’t it be nice if they could’ve gotten to an agreement through honest discussion?”

“It surely would’ve been, Lord Varys. Though I’m afraid that Lord Stark would not’ve let go of what he believed to be his.” There is only one way this will work. She has nothing left but the truth and the hope that Lord Varys remembers the risk they’re taking here. Remembers what her grandfather and uncle had to suffer through at the hands of another angry Targaryen.

“No. You’re right, of course. I’m very much afraid that he would not have.” There’s a pensive expression on his face.

“But perhaps we ought to remember that Bael never did want to hurt Lord Stark. He only ever acted out of love. Love for the daughter. Love for his own freedom. That’s the only reason why he took her.” Sansa’s throat begins to let some air back in.

“And we can’t really begrudge him that, now can we?” There’s some very inquisitive about the man. It’s in the way he’s picking her apart with his eyes alone. Still, it’s different from Littlefinger. Less selfish, perhaps. Less driven by lust and cynicism.

“No, Lord Varys, I surely can’t.”

He nods, seemingly pleased by the answer.

“I remember you, you know. From your time at King’s Landing. You were rather hard to miss, as you might imagine. But…I remember the hardship you went through and I regret not doing more to help you in your time of need.” He sounds sincere, but it’s really rather hard to tell with these types of men.

“You needn’t feel guilty for that, my Lord. There was very little anyone could do for me there.” Oddly enough, Sansa finds that she means those words. If Varys had said anything to defend her, his head would’ve likely rolled for it, and there were enough _beheadings_ there as it is. Adding another one would only have hurt her more.

“Thank you. You are most graceful. I look forward to my stay here.” Varys smiles once more, this time it seems honest. Then, he glides off as he always seems to have done, leaving Sansa to wonder whether she’s just gained an ally or an enemy, or something else completely.


	11. A Peace Offering

They’re in here somewhere. She knows they are. It surely hasn’t been that long ago that she’s seen them lying on her dressing table, or maybe just amongst the cloaks somewhere.

They were there.

And now they’re not.

Shireen’s torn up her entire room trying to catch an inkling of them. Of the gloves. The very pretty grey and rabbit’s fur gloves that Sansa had given her.

Perhaps they’re in the chest where she keeps her ribbons and King Robert’s weird jewellery? Digging in, she comes across two more sets of gloves (also gifts, another one from Sansa and one from Gilly), but no, those aren’t the ones she’s been looking for.

Because those sets? They fit like…well, like gloves.

And the grey rabbit fur ones don’t. Those were made for Sansa’s long slender fingers and not for Shireen’s tiny little stumps. She’d worn them, at first, for lack of a better option and also, because they’re simply very pretty. It’d made her ever so clumsy, though. She couldn’t write or read outside anymore because the empty fingertips kept getting in the way.

So, once she’d managed to acquire another set, Shireen had retired this particular pair.

_Somewhere._

She’s looked by the windowsill, under the bed, on her nightstand, in the chest, in the dresser and even behind the dresser. There’s nothing though.

No gloves.

Still…

There is one more place…

She just needs a little bit of help to get to it. And she needs that help from the tallest person in Winterfell.

Who just so happens to sleep right down the hallway.

“Brienne! -” She calls out, already speeding out of her own chambers. “- Brienne!”

“What?! What’s wrong?!” She missing a pauldron and her hair is a wild mess, but sure enough, Brienne’s already got her sword by her side.

“No. Sorry! Don’t worry. Nothing’s wrong.” Of course, with a war against the undead at their doorstep and Dothraki riders sleeping outside their gates, Shireen might need to be careful in addressing her urgency next time.

“Then why were you shouting?” There’s something like annoyance mixed with amusement hiding in her face.

“I just…You’re tall.”

“I am.” Brienne deadpans.

“Well, I should like to make use of that quality.”

“Do you need another basket placed upon your dresser?”

Had she asked that?

She had, hadn’t she?

Alright, so Shireen guesses that’s one mystery solved.

“Maybe…”

“Come along, then.” The lady knight sighs, adjusting her one pauldron and brushing her hand through her hair.

It’s only a few steps before they’re back, allowing Brienne to admire the absolute pandemonium Shireen made in her attempt to find her gloves.

“Right.-” Shireen tries.

“Right. -” Brienne gives her a look. “- It’s said that the mark of a good lady is the diligence with which she keeps her household.”

“I suppose I’m not a very good lady, then.” It’s only a temporary mess, though. Well, the clothes are. The stacks of books and parchment have become a permanent decoration of sorts. She just doesn’t want Sam going about and taking them before she’s finished with them.

“Neither am I.” There’s a small smile on Brienne’s face, even as she turns to get the basket from on top of the dresser.

And sure enough, as the contents of the basket are brought into Shireen’s view, she can spot her target immediately.

“Yes!” She quickly grabs the grey fur gloves and holds them close to her heart.

Brienne’s smile only grows wider.

“Back up top, again?”

“Yes please. -” Shireen nods. “- And thank you ever so much for your assistance.”

“So long as you keep mending my trousers, I certainly don’t mind lending the occasional hand.” Her strong arms easily lift the basket and put it back into its intended place.

And while Brienne makes a move to leave, Shireen quickly puts on her last cloak, a scarf and a _different_ pair of gloves. Then, she follows the Lady knight out into the innards of Winterfell.

“What did you need them for, anyway? You’ve already got a fine pair right there.” She raises an eyebrow, but Shireen isn’t quite ready to declare her intent yet.

“For a matter of diplomacy.” And with that, she leaves Brienne to put on the rest of her armour. Because as much as she appreciates her help, time is of the essence in this endeavour.

See, she’s been watching the Dragon Queen’s entourage quite carefully for a while now, and she knows without a doubt that the Queen’s pretty handmaiden is walking on the battlements right now. Alone. No intimidating Dothraki. No dangerous nobles. No stern Unsullied men.

Just her, staring out at the snow surrounding them all.

And that’s really the only situation wherein Shireen feels safe enough to approach her.

“Hello.” She chirps, now only a few feet away from the beauty herself.

The handmaiden startles and looks around, as if she isn’t quite sure Shireen is talking to her.

“M-me?” She asks eventually.

“Yes. Hey. -” Shireen starts, hoping with all her heart that this might work. “- I was just…I saw you the other day, when the dragons arrived and I…Well, you seemed cold, then.”

“I’m sorry. I meant no offense.”

“Oh, no. It wasn’t an offense. Not at all. The only offense is the cold itself, really. We’re freezing here. So I just thought, well, you might like these. To keep you warm.” She holds out the grey rabbit fur gloves. Carefully. So as to not spook the maiden.

“My queen takes good care of me.” She replies with an odd tone, as if she suspects that Shireen is trying to say something with this gesture.

Her eyes, though, they’re longingly staring at the gloves.

“I’m sure she does, but in winter, we all have to look out for one another just a little bit more. You know, it’s like the Stark saying goes: ‘the pack survives’.” Shireen nods, trying to look and sound like Sansa does whenever she says the words.

“I suppose. -” the handmaiden reaches out and ever so tenderly holds onto the gloves. Fingers slowly feeling out the soft material. “- Are you sure you don’t need them?”

“No. Sure. They’re too big for me.” But they’ll fit the handmaiden perfectly. Shireen can already tell.

“Thank you, then.” She accepts the gloves and slowly puts them on.

“Don’t worry about it. -” Shireen thinks it’s finally safe enough to show her happiness with a smile. “- I’m Shireen, by the way.”

“This one is Missandei.” The cadence in her voice changes when she says that. As if it’s a well-practiced phrase that belongs to another land.

“Lovely to meet you, Missandei.”

“And you, Shireen.” There’s an uptick on her lips now.

“Forgive me if I’m too forward, but might I accompany you on your walk?”

“Would you wish too?” She seems surprised and Shireen feels rather sad all of the sudden. How often has Missandei been walking out alone to come to the idea that people might not _want_ to join her?

“Of course! The fresh air will be good for me and it would be my delight to get to know you a bit better.”

“It would be mine as well.” Missandei nods.

And that’s how they start, really, talking about all sorts of things and nothing really at the same time. The snow, the food in Winterfell, the rabbits and the foxes that live in woods of the North, the shores of Dragonstone, the storms that plague it, the statues there. There’s not a moment of dullness in their conversation.

Truth be told, Shireen is sorry she didn’t do this much sooner. Missandei is such a kind soul and it feels so good to have another friend with her in these strange and dire times.

* * *

 

The air is crisp, there’s a shy sun shining down upon them and as always, there are plenty of things for her to do.

And yet, Sansa’s mind keeps drifting away. Towards the Godswood. Towards Nymeria and her pups. She knows that Sam and Gilly are watching over them now. Because well, even Arya needed to sleep eventually.

She’ll go and see the direwolf family later, Sansa promises herself.

Later.

For now, she has to keep herself focussed on the dance they’re all surely participating in. Her eyes drift upwards, from the courtyard to the battlements.

Shireen is there, somehow, miraculously, still alive and unharmed. That much alone has been an effort that’s carried by the entire north. The Free Folk, the Knights of the Vale, the Northern Bannermen, Brienne, Ser Davos, Gilly, Sam, Jon, Arya, Bran and of course Sansa herself; They’ve all been instrumental in making sure that nothing would befall the youngest Baratheon.

It was a plight born from empathy, but it’s also a plight that is starting to bear its fruits. She can see it happen already. For so long the relations between the Northern allies and their Southern guests have been filled with tension. Filled with wrath even.

But there she is. Shireen Baratheon, walking alongside the Dragon Queen’s maid as if they are friends. Smiling, talking, listening to one another.

It’s a remarkable difference from what’s happening on the other side of the yard, where Ser Jorah Mormont and Lady Lyanna Mormont are meant to be sparring.

Meant to be, because so far, they’ve only been sizing each other up. If they do speak, the only words shared are sneers and insults. About how old or how young the other is, about dishonour and inexperience, about outcasts and leftovers.

But, it has to be said, at least they _are_ interacting now. They _are_ looking for a middle ground, no matter how uncomfortable it is.

Sansa finds herself watching the two of them for a little while. Studies they way they move around one another. Tries to imagine how this will go forward. A path towards forgiveness? Maybe. A path towards war? Equally likely.

There’s a path though. Steps to be made. So long as they are kept together by the supposed dance of their swords.

When that stops, everything else falls away too.

Ser Jorah’s eyes flit elsewhere, rapidly losing interest in his practice with Lyanna. Rapidly losing interest in anything that isn’t…

Sansa follows his gaze and….ah.

_The Dragon Queen._

She’s just entered the yard as well, wearing the large white and red coat that sets her apart from the crowd. Judging by her movements, Sansa guesses that she’s looking for someone. Someone who clearly _isn’t_ Ser Jorah because she passes right by him.

Jon perhaps? Or no, Jon is in the Great Hall and she just came from there, so it isn’t him.

It’s the handmaiden. Has to be. She’s one of the few people Daenerys Targaryen is rarely without. Now, the queen hasn’t spotted Shireen and her new friend at the top of the battlements. But if she does? If she seeks to interrupt their acquaintance?

_No._

That mustn’t happen. It’s too fragile, too important to let slide. Their kindness is an example to everyone else. A friendship that cannot be killed in the cradle.

And Sansa sighs, already knowing what part she’s meant to play in this particular game.

“Your Grace, If I might borrow you for a moment?” Her time at King’s Landing has prepared her for nothing if not to navigate dangerous political figures.

“Of course.” Daenerys smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Those are still looking for the handmaiden.

“I was wondering if you were enjoying your stay here at Winterfell?” Sansa finds herself imitating Margaery. Sweet, clever Margaery who would bravely link her arms together with Cersei Lannister and casually steer her into whatever direction she felt might benefit her the most.

Sure enough, not even the Targaryen Queen is bold enough to throw a fit in the middle of the courtyard over a display of ‘endearment.’

The dragon and the lion, it seems, are both far more easily tamed than they let on.

It is simple, then, to guide Daenerys away from Shireen again and moving them all a step closer to reaching an equilibrium.

“It has suited me well, thank you.” That’s not exactly what the servants have told her. From what Sansa’s heard, the queen has been kept up most nights by the cold, no matter how many logs they throw on the fire.

“I’m so glad to hear that. Regardless, if you need any more furs or candelabra brought to your chambers, do let me know.”

She’s never going to take Sansa up on that offer. Or at least, that’s the plan. Hopefully, the Dragon Queen will consider it a show of her hand and they can spare the resources for the needy further down in the Keep.

“There is one thing you might assist me with.-” Daenerys starts and Sansa already knows she intends to ask after the handmaiden. To see if she might’ve spotted her or could sent men to find her.

And Sansa will gladly acquiesce to that request, but not until they’ve passed the Keep. Not until they’re far enough away to make it an actual chore.

“Of course! You are entirely right to ask. We _should_ absolutely talk about the missing Dothraki men.”

“Yes…we should.” The Queen replies, sounding less than pleased at this turn of events.

“We’ve got knights looking tirelessly for them, and once they’re found, you’ll be the first to know. -” Their corpses. They’ll find nothing but the frozen corpses. She’s sure. “- Though, I do feel that we ought warn them not to go hunting past midday. It’s easy to drift too far away from the lights of Winterfell and end up lost at night, you see.”

Well, for the _Dothraki_ it is. Sansa knows there’s a clan amongst the Free Folk who hunt at night, and at night only. They bring back a remarkable amount of venison and boar every morning and sleep throughout the day.

The dark is their domain, and they need not be swayed away from it.

A part of Sansa wonders if perhaps the missing Dothraki have fallen prey to them as well, but that will not be mentioned here today.

“I shall pass on the message.” Daenerys replies, jaw a tight line. She’s already lost too many of her men. Not here in Winterfell, per se. But the journey from White Harbour had been tough on them. Not enough clothes, not enough food and not enough knowledge about the wild North.

Her temper isn’t of much consequence, though, because they’ve reached the Keep. Sansa can let go of the conversation now, can let Daenerys lead again.

And sure enough…

“Can I ask…I was wondering if you’d seen Missandei today?”

“Missandei?” Sansa replies. It’s good to know the maiden’s name, so she might learn to listen for it in the gossip around Winterfell.

“My handmaiden.” Daenerys sighs deeply and Sansa wonders if Missandei is the only woman the Dragon Queen dares to let into her heart. She hasn’t seen anyone else. Perhaps Theon’s sister, from what Jon told her but then, if that were so, why is she not here with them now?

A stab of melancholy hits Sansa. She knows how lonely it is to only trust your own maiden and no-one else.

“I don’t believe I have, but I shall have my men keep an eye out for her.” She gently unlinks their arms and vows to actually fulfill the promise now. Because everyone deserves a listening ear in their lives. Even the Targaryen Queen.

Sansa curtseys once more in deference and then makes to move towards the Armory.

“Lady Sansa!” Daenerys calls out to her once she’s turned her back towards her.

“Yes, your Grace?”

“I…I wanted thank you.” There’s an ever so slight hesitation in her voice, an awkwardness that betrays how few times the Dragon Queen has done this.

“Whatever for, my queen?” Sansa turns around and wills herself to smile.

“For your loyalty in the Great Hall, a few nights ago. For convincing your people to trust me.” There’s genuine gratitude showing on her face and with a shock Sansa realizes that Varys has not told his queen, then. He has allowed the secret of Bael to remain a secret, at least for now.

“I believe in what’s best for my people, your Grace.” She keeps her eyes fixed on Daenerys. Doesn’t make a move until the Dragon Queen has nodded. Has given her a silent permission to go.

Once she has, Sansa allows herself to finally breathe easy, counting the steps she takes away from the Mother of Dragons, silently daydreaming about the mother of direwolves again. 


	12. A Thief in the Night

The smithy is generally considered a bit of an unsavoury place. A necessary one, sure, but not one where ladies are meant to reside. Furthermore, there’s soot and heat and fire _everywhere_ , which doesn’t exactly endear it to Shireen personally.

But while she’s cultivated a strong aversion to that particular atmosphere, her cousin has made it his home. And for that reason alone, Shireen will best her own instincts and will spend the afternoon sitting on one of the barrels at the entrance.

So far, she hasn’t regretted it yet, watching Gendry pound away at the metal with a certain fascination. What starts off as a simple ingot becomes a large, thick plate before long. He bends the edges, he rings each of those edges with the iron circles he made himself and then moves on to do the same to the next ingot and then another and then another. Each one even better than the last and without breaking or destroying any of them in the process.

It’s very much an acquired skill, like sword fighting or writing or even sowing. And while Gendry might not excel at any of those things, he is nothing if not an excellent blacksmith.

She’d asked him what he was making, but he said he couldn’t tell her. Something for Jon. That’s all.

But the rhythm of ting-ting-clunk has stopped for now, because Gendry no longer shaping his metal.

They’ve a visitor in the smithy.

Well, one that isn’t Shireen in any case.

“You’ve been abusing this.” He stares over the pommel of the sword to look at the blade, assessing the scratches and the dents on its surface.

“I have not!” Arya rebuts. She’s standing right next to him, staring at her small weapon from the same angle.

“Yes, you have. Did you bury it under a mouldy tree trunk or what?” He snorts.

“Uh…No. Obviously not.” She says that, but there’s a faint blush on her cheeks that belies the words.

“Right. You’re lucky it’s not started rusting yet.”

“So, you can fix it?”

Gendry hums, heading towards the anvil he’d been working at earlier.

“Can you?” Arya tries again.

“Why don’t you ask that _nicely_ , and then we’ll see what I can do with it.” They’re supposed to be arguing, but Gendry’s almost laughing and Arya’s in much the same way, so Shireen really rather fails to see the point in all their harsh language.

“I did ask nicely!” Arya makes a face behind his back.

“Maybe the Lady Shireen can show you how it’s done properly. Shireen?” Suddenly, the attention is on her, and she decides then and there that she doesn’t like it. At all.

“Uh…well…oh. I suppose…Ser Gendry, could you please use your talents to fix Needle?” Shireen bumbles.

“See! _Ser._ That’ll get you places.” He guffaws.

“Alright then. ‘Ser’ Gendry, can you _please_ use your ‘talents’ to fix Needle? - ” Arya mocks, but winks at Shireen in a way that helps her breathe easier.

“Hopeless. -” Gendry sighs. “-Completely hopeless. Next you’ll tell me you don’t wear dresses.”

Arya cackles at that while Gendry starts fiddling with Needle’s hilt, no doubt already looking to repair it.

“Blade’s going to need to be replaced. It’s far too weathered at this point.” He concludes.

“I thought you might say that.” Arya nods and lays out her other weapon.

The Valyrian steel dagger.

“Well, that one’s in perfect shape.” Gendry tells her, looking mighty confused at the turn of events.

“I know it is. I want you to turn _this one_ into a blade for _that one._ ” She has her hands behind her back now, and for the first time since she’s entered, the conversation takes on a serious note.

“Uh. That’s Valyrian steel. It’s nearly impossible to melt down and remake.” He replies, tapping at the oddly patterned metal.

“Does that mean you can’t?” Arya asks.

“Didn’t say that. -” He hunches over so his eyes are on the same level as the weapon and closes one of them to assess the matter further. “- I was apprenticed by just about the only man in Westeros who knew how to reforge the stuff.”

“Does that mean that you can?”

“Didn’t say that either.” Gendry murmurs, completely captivated by the idea of this new, daunting task.

“So, what _does_ that mean?” She gives him a puzzled look.

“It means that I can try. It’s a big dagger. Probably got more steel under the hilt. That should be enough to make a blade as skinny as Needle’s is.”

“Great! Thank you so much!” Arya rests her hands on his shoulders, letting them linger there for a moment.

“Just don’t come crying to me if all we end up with is a puddle of Valyrian slag.” He turns the dagger over to stare at the handle.

Arya merely shrugs, her attachment to the weapon is apparently fleeting at best.

“What do you want to do with the rest of it?” His gaze wanders towards her.

“The…rest of it?”

“Yes, the hilt with the gold, the big bloody ruby and the…what is that, anyway? Dragonbone? It’s probably expensive too.” It’s almost too dark to be bone, Shireen decides, but then, the texture doesn’t look like anything else.

“Oh that. You can keep that if you like.” Clearly, Arya hasn’t thought much about it.

“What? Keep it? Arya, it’s worth a fortune!” 

“Consider it a payment for your work, then. If you’re the only one here who knows how to forge Valyrian steel, you deserve to paid well for it.”

“That’s absurd. I would’ve done it for free. Besides, we don’t even know if I _can_ forge it.” Gendry splutters.

Not that it has much of an effect.

If anything, all it seems to do is drive Arya away from the discussion. Chasing her from the forge itself, going as she goes, dancing her own kind of steps away from Gendry and towards the cold again.

“In that case, you’d best get on with figuring out if you can.” She passes Shireen, giving her short pat on the shoulder before leaving the two of them behind.

“Arya?! Arya, you can’t just…?!” he tries, but she either can’t hear him or has stopped listening altogether.

“I don’t think that will work.” Shireen tells him.

“That’s me looking like a right tit, then.” He combs a soot-ridden hand through his hair. Which, thankfully, is just as black, rendering the flakes invisible to the eye.

“What are you going to do with it? The hilt, I mean?” She asks, because he might as well start thinking about it now.

“Nothing. -” he answers immediately. “- It’s not mine. I’m not doing nothing with that. I’ll give it back to her. I’ll…I’ll hide it in her chambers or something.”

“Do you really think you’ll get in and out of Arya’s chambers unseen?” Not to be one way or another about it, but to Shireen that sounds like a good way to get yourself killed.

“No.” Gendry grumbles, realizing the same.

Before Shireen can think to cheer him up with the fact that clearly, Arya wanted him to have it, another visitor heads for the smithy.

This one a sight less welcome.

It’s an Unsullied soldier. Or no, it’s _the_ Unsullied soldier. The one who was up on the battlements alongside Shireen, Bran and Gilly when the dragons arrived. He doesn’t look any happier than he did then.

Also, he doesn’t look to be here for weapons or armour.

“You, sick girl. -” He starts, very clearly addressing Shireen and not Gendry.

Still, it’s not Shireen who gets to answer to whatever he was meant to ask her.

“Oy. -” Gendry snaps. “- What do you think you’re doing in here insulting a lady like that?”

He picks up his hammer, walks right up to the Unsullied man and puffs up his chest in that way men tend to do.

“I did not speak to you.”  The soldier huffs.

“Fine, but _I know_ you weren’t talking to her either.” The hammer is lifted just a little higher.

The soldier stays silent for a while. Gendry doesn’t say anything either. They’re just stuck staring menacingly at one another like that.

“If she is sick, she needs to stay away from Missandei.” The Unsullied man tells Gendry eventually.

“She ain’t, so she doesn’t. And you know what? That armour of yours is looking a bit shoddy. Would be a real shame if you couldn’t find anyone to fix it for you when the time comes. Would be very bad if you went around banning people from going places only to end up getting banned from the forge yourself.”

“Gendry! -” Shireen raises her voice, trying to get between the two of them. “- It’s alright. Like you said. I’m not sick. Missandei is not in any risk of contracting greyscale. He doesn’t need to worry about anything.”

And to emphasise that once more, she turns toward the soldier.

“You don’t need to worry about anything.”  

He refuses to look back at her, but nods all the same, and before long, he’s on his way again. Towards his army, towards the Dragon Queen or towards Missandei. It doesn’t really matter.

“Thanks.” She tells Gendry, because while he may not have had to truly protect her from anything, he did take offense to the man calling her sick, and that’s not something that everybody does.

“ ’S fine. The nerve of him, coming in here like that…” He sighs and some of the anger seems to seep out of his shoulders.

“How are you planning to reforge the dagger?” There, that’s a much better subject to talk about.

“A lot of heat, to begin with, and then we’d need a mold of sorts-” The more he speaks about his plans, the more his discontent over Arya’s payment and the Unsullied jab begin to dissipate.

 Now, the smithy is still a bit of an unsavoury place, but Shireen can very easily bear it if it means she gets to spend more time learning from her cousin.

* * *

 

The knock on her door comes in the depth of night, when Sansa is still very much asleep and not ready to face whatever is happening beyond the safe confines of her chambers.

“Ghost.” She prods his big form when she gets out of bed, moving him to pay attention while she puts on something over her shift.

The knocking, meanwhile, continues with an unending vigour.

Sansa takes up the candle on her dressing table and opens the door in one fluid motion.

Beyond it, in the dark, she finds the terrified face of Arya.

“What? What is it?” She asks, already dreading that the answer will be ‘the Night King’ or ‘the Dead’ or something equally horrifying as that.

“It’s Nymeria…I…-”

_Oh Gods, the pups._

“- I…I can feel it. She’s gone, Sansa!”

“We need to. -” She starts, but her mind is on nothing but the fact that her sister is feeling what she felt when Lady…when she… “- let’s grab the blankets. The pups. They have to be…”

“Yes.” Arya whispers and comes into the room to help Sansa gather up what they need.

A part of her wants to wake Jon and Bran, wants their help with _this_ terrible thing, but there’s no time. Not with the cold and the ice that terrorizes the Godswood at night. Not when the pups have no protection from it whatsoever.

She slips on a pair of loosely fitting boots and a fur cloak before Arya hands her one of the blankets from her bed.

The corridors of Winterfell are nearly abandoned now, but the few guards that are awake are giving them very worried looks. No small wonder. What a sight they must make; the two Ladies Stark of Winterfell, running around the keep half-dressed and barely decent.

“Get the fire in the Great Hall burning as high as you can!” She shouts at them and tries to keep up with Arya’s quick step.

Their journey through the snowed-in Godswood passes in a blur. It’s completely dark, but they’ve both gone this way so many times now that there’s no worries of getting lost, or losing their footing on uneven ground. All that matters now is Nymeria and the pups.

There’s no sound coming from the den when they finally arrive. No mother waiting to greet them with a bark or a growl, no movement from inside the hidey-hole and most importantly, no wailing of pups.

“Quickly now!” Arya is already there, bending down and crawling into the den herself.

When Sansa finally gets a look at it, she stops dead in her tracks.

Because Nymeria isn’t there.

“There’s no body?” She whispers, not sure if this is more or less unsettling than having to watch the lifeless corpse of her sister’s companion.

“Come on! Don’t just stand there!” Arya spurs, already having laid down the blanket and putting the pups on them.

Her actions shake Sansa from her stupor, and not a moment later, she’s down there herself, following her sister’s lead.

The pups are still squirming, thank all the Old Gods and the new ones, but they are cooling down so rapidly that Sansa fears for the way back. How will they ever make it back to Winterfell alive?

The two of them decide to wrap the pups in the blankets and then tie those around their own chests, keeping the little ones close to whatever heat they have at hand. It’s still a risk, but one they’ll have to take unless…

There’s a light.

Far, far out into the Godswood, there’s an ever so bright beacon speeding towards them. It is accompanied by the familiar sound of hooves.

“Are they alright?!” Jon’s voice calls out, even before the light reaches them and they can see him almost jump off his horse and run towards them, Ghost hot on his heels.

“They’re alive. For now.” Arya breathes and Sansa feels the same relief as her sister does.

In the sharp light of his accompanying torch, it’s easy to see that Jon is fully dressed and equipped for the weather. He must not’ve been sleeping then.

Or maybe he was.

Maybe he was dreaming.

After all, Ghost was the only one who saw and heard what Arya and Sansa were doing, and he’s got no way of telling anyone where they were going other than…

“We need to get them to the Great Hall.” She tells him while getting out of the den. There are no more minutes left to lose.

“Take the horse.” He says, already helping them up as he goes. Arya up front, Sansa behind her.

“What about Nymeria?” She asks while Arya is already taking the reins.

“I’ll go look.” Jon promises and it’s the last thing Sansa hears before they’re barrelling through the Godswood at a breath-taking speed.

It’s impressive. No, it’s more than impressive, the way Arya navigates them past the trees and over the mounds on their way back towards Winterfell. Within minutes they’ve reached the first gate, ducking under it to get to the innards of the castle and then, in the blink of an eye they’re past the bridge between the armory and the Great Keep as well.

Arya doesn’t bother heading for the stables and takes them all the way up to the doors of the Great Hall. The horse can be put away by someone else. They’ve got to get off and in.

Once they slam the doors open, they’re greeted by a veritable wall of warmth. The fire in the large hall is roaring like she’s ordered and the fur lying in front of it will make for a perfect bed to open their oh so precious packages.

As in the den, they’re sitting on their knees, taking care of the knots in the blankets they made themselves.

The first one to come out of Sansa’s blanket is the one who was born first too. Her precious little lady. The one she’d got to name Jonquil. She’s quiet, but her paws are actively squirming, relishing in the new heat surrounding her.

Out of Arya’s blanket comes the black, loud pup. Arya had named him Bael because he makes a lot of ‘poetry’. Something everyone else just calls noise. But his name is equally fitting given the black, dark promise they’d made towards their people by invoking the Wildling hero. True to form, though, he’s already wailing when he’s lifted onto the fur, settling by his sister.

Sansa’s hands simultaneously pick out the next two from her blanket. Florian and Florys. Their little twin wolves. One named for Jonquil’s knight, the other for the clever Florys the fox, a lady who knew no equal. They cuddle together, alive and yawning for attention.

Arya has Rowan in her arms. The big pup that had given Nymeria so much grief at her birth. Named after Rowan Gold-Tree, her size seems to have served her well now as she’s barely affected by the cold.

The last one to come out of Sansa’s blanket is Symeon, the black and grey pup that had been a source for worry in the beginning. They’d had another name picked out for him at first, Sansa can’t remember which, but then Bran had casually mentioned, _as he does,_ that Symeon was blind. Now, all the pups were blind at first, but Symeon will stay blind for the rest of his life. Or so her brother had said. And well, after that, how could they not name him after the famed blind knight?

The poor thing must be so confused now, without sight, being left out in the cold and then taken away from his home. He’s alive, though, and that’s what matters the most.

Arya puts Shella down next to him. The smallest pup. Named for the beloved lady of the rainbow knight. Her colours complimenting the name. She’s suffering from the cold, more so than the others and it takes a few moments of Arya rubbing her with warm hands to get her to wake up again.

And that’s all seven of them.

Seven pups, blissfully alive and probably getting hungrier by the minute.

“Go wake Samwell Tarly. -” She tells that one bleary-eyed servant that’s awake. “- and find us a jug of milk.”

“They’re going to be fine. Right?” Arya carefully keeps petting tiny Shella.

“I think so.” Sansa lets her finger run over Jonquil’s spine.

“Good…Good. We got there in time.” She sighs.

“What happened to Nymeria?” Because Arya has to know more, right? The bond they share must’ve told her something at least.

“She left. I think she panicked. Didn’t feel she could take care of the pups anymore.”

“Why? She was doing such a great job with them.” Symeon lets out a squeak, and Sansa gently lifts him into her lap.

“It’s not in her nature. I don’t think. She can lead a pack, sure. But be a mother…?” Arya’s staring at the wall, looking for some faraway place that only she can see.

“What’s the matter? What happened?” The voice of Samwell shakes them from their quiet musing.

And it’s not just Sam who’s pouring into the Great Hall. With him is, of course, Gilly. But Sansa can imagine that once the two of them were roused, half chambers in that particular corridor were disturbed as well, because they’ve brought Bran, Shireen, Brienne and Gendry all with them.

Not ser Davos, oddly enough, but perhaps he slept through the ruckus. Or he’s on a patrol.

“Nymeria left the Godswood. We brought the pups here and Jon is out looking for her as we speak.” They don’t really need to know how or why Nymeria abandoned her young. That’s not the point, right now.

“Oh. I see. How are they?” Sam settles by her side, checking the temperature of each pup one by one by laying a hand on them.

“They seem alright.” Sansa says, but she’s got no idea whether they truly are.

“I agree. They’ll need to be fed, though.” He notes, holding Florys.

“I’ve already asked for a jug of milk. Here’s to hoping it’ll do.” Symeon is licking at her pinkie. They clearly need it soon.

“We could see if they can nurse with one of the kenneldogs?”

“And do what with their pups? Also, they’re far too large. That poor dog’ll be sucked dry before the week is over.” Arya grouses, getting up from her place by the hearth, moving towards the door.

With a quiet interest, Sansa watches as Gendry follows her.

The atmosphere stays like that for a little while. No-one really speaks. Some of them settle by sitting on the high table, while Gilly, Sansa and Shireen are on the fur.

Once the jug of milk arrives, they try to feed the pups. It’s done by using soaked strips of cloth (Sansa will need new blankets tomorrow) and wringing them out so that the pups can drink up the milk. Which works, to some extent, but it’s not a great replacement for an actual mother. 

Sansa feeds Jonquil, while Bran has Florian. Shireen has Florys and Brienne holds onto Rowan. Gilly has little Shella while Sam does the same for Symeon. Bael is fed by Arya and Gendry, because he simply will not settle for less than two caretakers.

“Jon’s back.” Bran announces without needing to look up from Florian.

A cold breeze pours into the Hall when the doors open and sure enough, there he is again. Snow sticking to his cloak and hair, Ghost by his side, but, notably, no Nymeria.

“And?” Arya asks, putting Bael in Gendry’s arms.

“We found tracks leading from the Godswood to the North Gate. From there, we could trace her steps southward, but after that…”

“Nothing.” Arya finishes for him.

“Nothing.” He confirms.

She shakes her head, while Jon accepts Bael from Gendry. He takes the little one back to the group, close to the fire. Ghost joins him there, snuffling at the pups, licking one or two of them.

“I don’t think we can keep them a secret any longer.” Sansa holds Jonquil close.

“No. Probably not.” Jon replies while Bael is curled up against him, all but disappearing into the black of his cloak.

 At very end of the Great Hall, near the door, in the darkness, are Arya and Gendry. He’s got an arm around her.

_How curious._

“She’ll be fine.” Gendry murmurs.

“I know she will be. I just…-” Arya’s voice sounds watery and Sansa’s quite sure she’s crying. “- I’ll miss her, is all.”

His arm wraps around her a little tighter and he rests his head against her, but they’re not talking anymore.

Yes, Sansa thinks that Nymeria’s absence will be felt by all of them, and by no-one as badly as by Arya, but she will not be alone in carrying the burden. That much is clear simply by looking at the two of them.


	13. A Raven's Wing

“And then you go one over, one under, one more over…just like that. Yes, that’s great!” Gilly explains, keeping a close eye on Missandei’s sewing.

Missandei, in turn, lets out a relieved sigh. She’s never done this before, or so she’s told Shireen. Her tasks in Essos were of a very different nature and if any of her garments needed stitches, another slave would be tasked with doing them.

Which, a part of Shireen really wants to ask about what her life was like before this, but another part is dreadfully scared of chasing her new friend away. Especially now that they’re all getting closer together. Missandei doesn’t have a lot of time to spare, what with having to tend to her queen, but the time that she does have, she gladly spends helping the women of Winterfell working on the never-ending pile of clothes that need mending or padding.

She’s mostly doing handkerchiefs at the moment, but with the speed she’s progressing, it won’t be long before she’ll have learned how to properly do cloaks and shirts.

Sansa’s not with them in the study today. The smallfolk need attention and so do the pups. She’s managed to masterfully combine both by feeding the pups while listening to the people’s problems. So, while the pups are pretty happy to get the care they deserve, the smallfolk are downright in _awe_ that they’ve got a Stark raising direwolves right in front of them. Apparently, it inspires love and loyalty, both of which they can’t miss.

Although, not all the pups are with Sansa right now. That’d be a sight, she can hardly fit all seven of them on her lap. No, Shella and Rowan are with Arya while Florys and Florian are with them in the study, under the watchful eye of Bran.

Bran, who, thankfully, hasn’t said anything to scare off Missandei yet.

“Have they fallen asleep again?” Gilly asks him.

“Yes. They’re dreaming of their mother.”

“Well, all babies do. I figured that out when this one’s learned to say ‘mum’. He’s been babbling about nothing else all through the night.” She nods at little Sam who’s toddling on the rug in front of them.

“They are so small. -” Missandei marvels at the grey balls of fur. “- Will they really grow to be as big as the white one?”

Ghost had been a bit of a novelty to the southern guests, Shireen understands this is because Jon and had cheerfully neglected to mention him when they were at Dragonstone. And so, the white wolf had given the Dragon Queen and Missandei quite a scare when they’d seen him trot across the courtyard for the first time.

Which, that feels odd to Shireen, because surely, once you’ve acquired a dragon, a direwolf can’t be all that exciting. That’s obviously not true, though, because Missandei hasn’t given those dragons a closer look since they arrived but she did thoroughly enjoy helping Florys and Florian getting fed and cuddled today.

“Ghost was the runt of the litter and he outgrew the others.” Bran holds up Florian like he can already see how big he’ll grow up to be.

Whatever he sees, though. He doesn’t seem inclined to share it with the others.

“Ah, there you are, princess Shireen.” Ser Davos’s voice comes from the entrance of the study.

“Hello!” She smiles back at him.

 “Might I borrow you for the afternoon? There’s some pressing business waiting for you.”

 _Pressing business?_ Last Shireen had heard the most pressing business for her was mending socks and trying not to get in the way of the Targaryen army too much.

“Oh. Uh…Will you be alright?” She turns to Missandei and Gilly.

“Don’t you worry. We’ll be fine. Plenty of work left to do, innit?” Gilly nudges her elbow against Missandei, who’s nodding vigorously.

“Well, I suppose I am available for borrowing, then.” Shireen shrugs.

“Much appreciated. -” Davos grins. “- And put on your extra cloak. We’ll have to travel for a bit.”

That explains next to nothing, but after what they did to him during the birth of the pups, Shireen really can’t begrudge him his secrecy. When they reach the South Gate Gendry’s already waiting for them with three horses.

_Curious and curiouser._

Ser Davos helps her get up on one of the horses and then quickly gets on his own before leading all three of them out of Winterfell and into the cold landscape of the North.

“Any idea where we’re going?” Gendry asks her as they’re riding over the snowy roads.

“None whatsoever.”

“Oh good, so he’s told you about as much as he’s told me.” He deadpans.

“Are you scared?” Shireen isn’t, but there’s an antsy twitch in Gendry’s arm that tells her he might not feel the same.

“No. Not that. The last time Davos told me to go somewhere he saved my life. Just…”

“- Wondering what’s going to change this time.” She nods, because it feels as if time has been moving very quickly as of late. Perhaps it’s because there’s the possibility, in the back of everyone’s mind, that they might not have much more time left altogether.

“Right, I know we haven’t talked much about the legitimisation issue anymore. - ” Ser Davos slows down his horse’s pace to come riding next to them. “- but I reckon we’re far away enough from Winterfell to bring it back up again.”

“Oh?” Gendry raises his eyebrows.

“Now, I’ve been prodding our king Jon for a bit.”

“Didn’t he give up his title for Daenerys?” Shireen asks.

“Matter of debate. Safe to say nothing’s been written in stone yet, but best not mention that to her. Either way, I asked Jon how he felt about recognizing Gendry as a Baratheon.” It would be very nice to have someone to carry the name again. After all, Shireen is expected to become a part of her husband’s family when she marries. To whomever that might be.

“What’d he say?” Gendry himself seems equally hopeful regarding the prospect.

“As expected, the man who was born a bastard did not object to recognizing another, but he did warn me about our Dragon Queen and her feelings towards your family.” Ser Davos stares at the hills up ahead. Clearly, that’s what they’re heading for.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Shireen huffs.

“For the time being, she’s got no idea who Gendry is and what his relevance might be. The intention is to keep it that way until the North has solidified its independence.”

“But…?” Gendry starts.

“But I want you to be prepared for the responsibility of being one of two people who can carry your House. Having multiple bloodlines is a good way to…let’s call it _accumulating the trust of the bannermen.”_ He’s talking about power. About putting House Baratheon back on the map now that the last of Cersei’s children has died.

“Is that why we’re here? To accumulate the trust of the bannermen?” Hadn’t her father’s bannermen died fighting over Winterfell and hadn’t her uncle’s men gone down at Highgarden?

“Yes! You clever girl, that is exactly why we’re here. -” He guffaws. “- You see, when I was at White Harbour I came across several men who used to be in service of your father. They were rather unkind at first, because they believed I was still loyal to Stannis’s cause.”

“Like you ever really were.” Gendry snorts.

“That’s what I told them too. To which they responded that they were able to accept a great deal, but that they left his army because they would not stand for Stannis burning his only daughter.”

“They left because of me?” Shireen doesn’t understand, the bannermen hadn’t cared about her. None of them had ever spoken to her, had tried to get to know her, but they left their liege over her death?

“Yes. They’d hoped to wait out the storm of your father’s religious fervour and were planning to follow you back to the faith of the Seven after his death. When he decided to burn the entire future of his House to win a single battle, they left not a day later.”

“I didn’t realize they cared. They never showed.” She murmurs but supposes that when push comes to shove, they must’ve. If not about her as a person, then they did care about the only living heir of the Baratheon name.

“Bannermen can be strange like that, princess. Imagine my surprise, though, when I arrived in Winterfell and found you there alive.” She doesn’t need to imagine it, she was there. As touching as it was, she really hopes she never has to see that pain on her friend ever again.

“So, after I asked for Gendry to come back to Winterfell, I sent word to White Harbour that the Baratheon heir had survived Stannis’s foolhardy decision. Their response was, well…” He rides them past a small hill, towards a spot that looks out on a snowy field.

Shireen has no idea how big her father’s army had been. Has no idea how many men it takes to make a small army or a big one, but the sight that greets her eyes? That’s an _army._

An army of bannermen.

Here for _her._

 

Alive _because_ of her. Because she was burned to death.

Alive because they refused to die for her father’s ideals.

“For now, they’ll fly the Tully banner. Pretend to be auxiliary troops for Sansa and the knights of the Vale, so as to not spook the Dragon Queen, but in due time, they’ll want to fly yours.”

“My banner?” Shireen asks Ser Davos.

“You have a banner?” Gendry tries immediately after that.

“Not that I’m aware of.” She shrugs.

“No, not yet, perhaps. But I suppose you’ll not want your father’s?” Ser Davos looks at her.

She shakes her head.

“And your uncle Renly’s heraldry would be a bit strange too.”

“I hardly knew him.”

“Wouldn’t use the king’s either.” He adds.

“Why not?” Gendry asks.

“Because the last two kings who carried it were Lannister in everything but name.” Ser Davos huffs.

“I don’t want it to be a black stag either.” Shireen murmurs, thinking of her poor little wooden stag, hurt by the fire as it was.

“Aye. I can imagine that.” He whispers, no doubt thinking of the same.

“So, what _do_ you want then?” Gendry asks and she gives him a good long look. Thinks about the way he fits into all of this.

“The Blackfyre banner…” Shireen muses.

“Uh. Well, I reckon that might be a bit inappropriate.” Ser Davos splutters.

“No, I mean, Daemon Blackfyre was a legitimized Targaryen bastard. He inverted the colours of his father’s house to create his own sigil. A black dragon on a red field, rather than the reverse, and well, if Gendry and I are _both_ meant to be the future of our House, we should show that, right?”

“Me? You want _me_ to go and be like Daemon bloody Blackfyre?” Gendry doesn’t seem to believe it quite yet, but at the same time, he sounds a little giddy at the idea.

“A yellow stag on a black field. A bright light in the long night.” Ser Davos considers, getting off his horse. 

“Yes. exactly.” Shireen follows his lead.

“I guess it sounds good when you say it like that.” Her cousin shrugs and does the same.

“Then I do believe the Baratheon House has made a unanimous decision.” The onion knight smiles.

“Wait-” Shireen holds onto Ser Davos’s arm. “- You said you’d sent word to the bannermen.”  


“Yes…?” He raises an eyebrow.

“ _How_ did you send word to the bannermen?”

“I wrote them a letter and gave it to a raven?” Ser Davos replies and something like warmth blooms in her chest.

“You wrote them a letter!” She squeaks.

“I had to get them here somehow, didn’t I?” He seems bewildered, as if he doesn’t understand the importance of the matter.

“You _wrote_ them a letter! -” She repeats, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. “- I’m so proud of you.”

“Ah. Well, you did tell me it was important to learn.” She can hear the smile in his voice.

It’s hard to grasp, still, how important she apparently is in this theatre called Westeros, but knowing that Ser Davos continued teaching himself his letters, that even in her death, that craft went on without her, it gives Shireen the idea that what she did does matter.

Small things can grow mighty great, it would seem, as great as an army of bannermen fighting for spring.

* * *

 

The Smallfolk’s problems, Sansa supposes, are just as much their problems, but on a much larger scale. For example; she can listen to the farmer telling her that they’ve emptied his grain storage and do nothing. Leave him to starve. One less mouth to feed, sure.

But also, one less pair of hands to work.

One less pair of hands to carry a sword when the time comes.

She’s granted the man and his family stay at Winterfell, on the condition that he uses his skill as a weaver to make traps they can set out in the forest. Because every rabbit caught and every pheasant found means another mouth less to feed.

And there are so many, many mouths now.

They’re going through their reserves much faster than anticipated. Not simply because they’ve got no less than four armies living on their grounds, but the dragons as well.

Oh, the dragons.

Sansa had hoped that, like the snakes she’d seen with artists in King’s landings, the creatures would gorge themselves on as much meat as they could, so as to still their hunger for weeks or months on an end.

Nothing appears to be less true, because they have not stopped eating since arriving. More and more cattle disappear into those cavernous jaws every day.

Might not be long now before they’ll have to take the fight to the Night King instead of waiting for his arrival, lest they all want to starve to death.

Speaking of starving. There’s a tiny wail coming from her lap. She looks down, and there, inbetween a sleeping Jonquil and Bael is Symeon, holding up a paw and whimpering for her to give him what he wants.

“Oh, so _now_ you’ll eat?”

He’s difficult when it comes to this. Doubly so since his mother has left. She couldn’t get him to feed with the commotion of the smallfolk around them today. Something that didn’t bothered Jonquil and seemed to actively calm Bael.

Not Symeon, though.

Symeon likes the peace and quiet.

“Alright then.” Sansa breathes, picking up the ceramic pitcher with milk in one hand and the tiny goat’s horn in the other. There’s a leather nub and a tiny hole at the end of it, made specifically for this purpose by a very crafty kennelmaster.

It works like charm, even if Symeon’s little noises wake up Ghost, who’s spread out behind her chair.

Well, it’s _not_ technically her chair. It’s Jon’s. According to the Dragon Queen, anyway. But it’s also the chair that’s closest to the hearth and the pups need all the warmth they can get.

So, Daenerys Targaryen can sod off with her arbitrary rules for now.

“There we go. In your own time.” She smiles at Symeon, wondering if her voice is an encouragement or a distraction to him.

“It’s true, then. There are more than one.” As if summoned by her name, Queen Daenerys glides into the Great Hall.

“Your Grace. -” Sansa greets, but neglects to get up. It’s simply not worth waking Bael and Jonquil over this. “- You are correct, Ghost is not the last of his kind.”

A brief flash of hurt crosses over Daenerys’s face. Did she perceive Sansa’s words as a slight to her monstrous ‘children’? Or perhaps as an insult to her own person, to the last of the Targaryens?

_Oh, if only you knew._

“I’m glad to hear that there are plenty like him.” The tone of her voice suggests that his lack of uniqueness somehow makes Ghost less important.

“Like him, your Grace? There are no direwolves like him.” Sansa casts a quick glance over at Ghost, whose ears are lying so dangerously close to his neck that if he were any of the other wolves, Sansa’s sure he’d be growling. 

“You mean to say he’s special?” Daenerys asks, not noticing the threat he’s casting her way.

“Every direwolf is. No two are alike, you see. They can be as different as the sun and the moon and yet still belong to the same pack.” Symeon seems to have had his fill for now. The silence has worked up his appetite in a way that it would never do for Bael.

“A pack? Are they his children?” Sansa doesn’t like where this line of questioning is going. She’s got no idea what the intent is. Is Daenerys afraid of the direwolves or is she about to commandeer one for herself?

“No, they’re his nieces and nephews, which I’m sure you’ll agree gives them a very close familial bond, regardless.”

Something inside of Sansa is screaming at her to _stop saying_ things like that.

Another part of her is gleefully whispering that she should most certainly continue.

That part sounds an awful lot like Littlefinger.

“I wouldn’t know. I have never had uncles or aunts.”

Technically speaking, her mother and father were also her uncle and aunt, but there’s not enough gold or grain in Westeros that would convince Sansa to say that out loud.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve got great memories of my uncle Benjen.” What she knows about her other uncle and aunt is also better left unsaid.

“What was he like?”

“He was a man in the Night’s Watch, like Jon. Kind, but very pragmatic. A lot like Jon in that regard as well. -” She is not going to talk about Jon with the Mother of Dragons.

She’s _not._

“- Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s high time I put these three to bed.” Sansa lays down the goat’s horn and clumsily tries to hold onto Bael, Jonquil and Symeon at the same time.

Getting up proves to be an equally difficult challenge and there’s no doubt that she wakes up all three of them in the process. She doesn’t look back at Daenerys, doesn’t curtesy, doesn’t hold to any of the etiquette she’s been taught.

She’s always been very bad at manners when there are direwolves involved.

At least Bael has the decency to not start howling like a bereaved widow until they’re out in the hallway and _probably_ out of earshot from the queen.

“I know. I know. I know.” She’s got him by the scruff, has Symeon burrowed in the crook of her arm and Jonquil all but hanging over her shoulder.

Her steps are slow and unfocussed and when, to make matters worse, Symeon starts slipping from her crook towards the small space between her arm and her flank, Sansa very much considers putting everyone down on the cold ground for a moment to rearrange them.

“Alright, where’s the fire?” Jon’s big hand carefully comes to cradle Symeon mere moments before the pup slides down her skirts.

“Thank you.” She tries to say through the insistent baying of Bael.

“Don’t worry. Do you want me to…?” He motions at Jonquil.

“Oh, please.”

Another hand comes up and the little lady wolf is lifted from her tenuous grip.

However, Jonquil, who is normally quite calm and silent, does not appreciate this turn of events and quickly joins Bael’s chorus of discontent.

 “That didn’t-” Jon winces.

“No. -” Sansa agrees.

“Should I…?” He tries.

“Maybe we ought to…?” She says at exactly the same time, holding out Bael while reaching for Jonquil.

“Yep.” Jon hands Jonquil to Sansa, who immediately stops whining.  Bael, on the other hand, doesn’t really care much for this change of hands. He simply keeps shrieking like the world is ending.

It doesn’t seem to distress Jon nearly as much as it does Sansa, though. Instead, he lifts Bael up to look him in the eye and puts on a stern voice.

“That’s a great story, mate. So, are you going to calm down now, or what?”

There’s another yelp, but Bael goes from calling for the Stranger to mewling as if he were a kitten instead of a pup. So, that’s an improvement to say the least. When they look up again, both Jon and Sansa are laughing. Laughing at how odd these little pups are. How different they are from what Ghost and Lady were.

“Thank you again.”

“Not a problem. Why don’t I take these two and that one -” He looks over her shoulder, probably because Ghost followed her out of the Hall. “- to the study so they can fall asleep. _Quietly._ ”

That last bit is firmly aimed at little Bael, who doesn’t seem interested in stopping his yips just yet.

“Yes, that’ll be good. I don’t think this one is quite ready for bed yet.” She’s not sure how she knows, but Sansa can just tell that it’d be nice for Jonquil to go on a short stroll before putting her back with her siblings.

“Alright then, lads, let’s leave the ladies to enjoy their afternoon.” With a pup in each hand and an adult direwolf behind him, Jon happily heads towards the keep.

Sansa, meanwhile, decides to show Jonquil the rest of Winterfell. She carefully holds the pup against her chest and wraps about as much of her cloak around her as possible before going outside. Once there, she murmurs to her about the sept when they pass it, tells her about the Great Keep and the Smithy when they cross the courtyard. She mentions the Godswood where Jonquil was born and takes the stairs up to the Maester’s Turret and the Rookery.

She wants to show the pup the ravens, at a safe distance, of course. When she arrives, Samwell is already there, reading one note or another. She doesn’t disturb him, he’s at work, they’ll have plenty of time to pester him during supper.

When she’s holding out a finger to one of the ravens, she hears him, though.

Short little puffs of breaths. distressed. Not quite right.

“Oh no. Oh, please, no.” He’s trembling, a small message held in his hand.

“What? What is it?”

“Oh, no, no, no. This can’t be true.”

“Sam?” The fear that’s become her near constant companion grips at her heart once more.

“My brother. My f-father. I have to…we need to…Sansa, _they’re dead._ ”


	14. A Brewing Anger

The atmosphere in the Godswood is tense. Much more so than it ever has been before. It wasn’t like this when the pups were born, or when they were trying to keep them a secret from the rest of Winterfell.

In fact, this isn’t about the pups or Nymeria at all. And while Arya still occasionally gives the empty den a wistful stare, the others are focussed on something else completely.

Jon’s jawline is dangerously taut.

Sansa’s expression has turned to steel.

Bran is lost in places unseen.

Ser Davos is pacing.

Lady Brienne is quietly radiating anger.

There’s a look of defeat on Gendry’s face.

Gilly is crying.

Samwell is panicking.

And Shireen? Shireen doesn’t know what to do with this. There’s a helplessness crawling up her throat. A few hours ago, she found out that she had an army to her disposal and now she realizes that there’s nothing she can do with them. Not when it truly matters.

“My mother and sister. They…I don’t know where they are -” Sam heaves. “- They sent a raven to Oldtown, but…but then the Maesters didn’t do anything with it. And then they sent a raven to castle Black and then Edd had to send it all the way to Winterfell before I got it and…I don’t know where they are because the raven was sent so long ago that…that they must’ve moved in the meantime otherwise queen Cersei’s men would’ve gotten to them and killed them. Two noble women alone in the countryside, they’d be sitting ducks and I -”

“They’re not dead.” Bran intercedes.

“They’re not?” A shimmer of hope radiates in Samwell’s face.

“No. They’re hiding in the Riverlands. I can see them. They’re at a refugee camp. Food’s running out and the queen’s men will be there in a fortnight. They can’t stay.”

“We’ll dispatch a troop of our quickest knights to get them.” Jon orders.

“Don’t you worry, they can stay at White Harbor, I’ll send word to Lord Manderly. He’ll treat them with kindness and respect.” Sansa adds.

Shireen looks at Ser Davos, who immediately understands the unspoken question.

“Perhaps we can spare the Northern knights for the North and send someone else in their stead. Someone who’s more familiar with the south.” He offers up.

“Who?” Arya asks.

“Our ‘reinforcements’ from Riverrun.” Sansa gives a brief pale smile. Ser Davos must’ve discussed the situation with her, then.

“Thank you. Thank you. I just…I don’t understand how this could happen. I knew my father fought for Cersei, but he’d survive just about any battle.” Sam flops down on a fallen tree trunk. Gilly quickly settles in next to him, still sobbing.

“Did your mother tell you how they died?” Jon places a hand on his shoulder.

“She said she didn’t know. They never even sent their bodies to our home. Just a stranger telling her that they wouldn’t be coming back.”

“Who told her that? They might still be alive. It could be ruse.”

“Bran?” Sansa looks to her brother.

“They died in fire.”

A violent nausea begins to stir in Shireen’s stomach. Not another one. Haven’t there been enough terrible deaths like this? Her eyes drift to the back of the Heart Tree, barely visible from here.

Why did the gods bring her back, if they couldn’t do the same for Sam’s family? It’s not fair that they had to feel what Shireen had to feel, but didn’t get to tell the story afterwards.

Shireen had no family to protect.

No daughter or wife or sister or mother that might need her to stay alive.

Randyll and Dickon had. They were vital to the strength of their house.

But somehow the Old Gods closed their eyes to that and allowed the silence and the grief to take hold. She’s angry at them, Shireen realizes. For all that she’s grateful that they brought her back, Shireen wants to shout at them now.

If they are truly Gods. If they are so powerful that they can bring back people from the dead. That they can make something like the tree-eyed Raven; A being that can see the past, the present and perhaps even the future all at the same time…

Then why are there still people dying?

Why are there still wars?

Why hasn’t the Night King been defeated long before he was ever able to accumulate an army?

Are Gods even Gods if they cannot protect those that serve them?

Her mind shifts back to R’hollr and suddenly Shireen wonders who it is that burned Samwell’s father and brother.

An enemy of the crown, surely.

Someone with a propensity for burning things.

 _Melissandre._ Her mind whispers.

Had she found a new group of men to enslave to her Red God? Had she seduced them into facing the queen’s army and had they won enough ground to sacrifice their enemies? It wouldn’t surprise Shireen in the least.

What does surprise Shireen, though, is that they are not the only ones in the Godswood anymore.

A group of no less than a dozen people appear from the treeline. She can see Dothraki first, followed by Lord Tyrion, Ser Jorah, Lord Varys, Missandei, three unsullied with Missandei’s stern friend amongst them and of course, heart-stoppingly…

The Dragon Queen herself.

And just like that, Shireen realizes that there might be someone else capable of burning men within the blink of an eye. Someone else who also has vowed to wage a war against queen Cersei.

* * *

 

“My, my, doesn’t this look cosy.” Lord Tyrion starts, and Sansa can’t say that she remembers him like this from her time in King’s Landing.

She doesn’t ever recall him being servile or starry-eyed, and instead reminds herself that this man used to be the biggest cynic in the Red Keep.

How times have changed.

Because it’s clear that he led the queen and her entourage to the Godswood. It’s clear that he must have some inkling that they were discussing private matters. However, it is also clear that he has no idea _which_ matters they are discussing.

Otherwise he might not have been so keen to step in.

Oh, she remembers the looks he gave Samwell after his arrival. She remembers how uncomfortable their Maester-to-be had made him.

And now, Sansa knows exactly why.

“Lord Tyrion, forgive me for saying this, but our conversation here does not concern you, nor does it concern our queen.” And if he’s wise, he’ll take her warning at face value and leave.

“I think we’d rather decide that for ourselves, don’t you?” Daenerys addresses the question to her Hand, looking ever so proud that she’s found out where they’ve been keeping their secrets.

There is a small part of Sansa that’s relieved, though. What they are discussing is not the Northern independence nor Jon’s conspicuous lineage.

It is about two men who have died in war. Two men who are very important to Samwell and who he will need to grieve for, but it is only two men.

Still, Sansa does not envy Jon for having to bring the matter out in the open.

“Very well, then. We’ve just received word that Dickon and Randyll Tarly were burned to death. Sam’s family.” He doesn’t mention the mother or the sister. Perhaps they’ll get to that later. Perhaps they’ll not. It all depends on what happens here next.

“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Daenerys sounds sincere.

She also sounds like she has no idea who it is they’re talking about.

Tyrion however, does, judging by the pallor his face has suddenly turned to.

“Do we know what happened?” Surprisingly, this remark comes from Ser Jorah. He does look like he knows who the men were and he most certainly seems to consider what they meant to Sam.

“They met their end by dragonfire.” Bran replies.

And there it is.

What she suspected and what Tyrion must’ve known to be true.

There are a lot of different expressions flitting over Daenerys’s face now. Surprise, contemplation, distaste, regret and finally…

_Denial._

“You must be mistaken. I…I don’t recall ever meeting anyone by that name.” At least she seems to understand the gravity of the situation.

“You stared them in the eyes as they died.” Bran’s voice remains utterly neutral, but Sansa can’t help but wonder if he’s so set on confronting her because he likes Samwell.

“No, you’re wrong. My children would not harm our allies.” She looks to Jon, trying to find some sympathy and coming up empty.

“They weren’t our allies. -” Sansa explains. “- they fought for Cersei.”

“Then they died in combat. They died choosing the wrong side.” The queen still seems clueless as to who it she’s meant to have killed.

“I don’t believe they did. I believe they survived the battle, your Grace. -” Much to everyone’s surprise, it’s _Varys_ who speaks up. “- In fact, if I recall correctly, they surrendered and you gave them a choice. Bend the knee or die by fire.”

Daenerys doesn’t look at her Spider. Pretends like she hasn’t just felt the sting of its venom. She clearly remembers now, though.

Tyrion closes his eyes.

A deep, long-lasting silence descends upon the conversation. One that leaves everyone seemingly adrift.

“They are our enemies.” The Dragon Queen decides at last.

“No, they aren’t. -” Jon shoots back. “- We made a pact with the Lannisters. Can’t have been that long after you burned them.”

“We intended to send them to the Wall.” Tyrion tries.

“Then why didn’t you?” Ser Davos barks.

No-one replies to that.

“No? Nothing? Well then, allow me to explain a thing or two about Westeros, your Grace. Not that long ago, my liege was fighting against her liege -” Ser Davos points to Brienne and then turns to Jon. “- and his brother. All of them believed to have a claim for the Throne, you see. Men died battling for that. But you know what we didn’t do? We didn’t needlessly slaughter our prisoners of war. Because we _knew_ that the day might come when we would stand together again.”

He takes a deep breath.

“We killed kings, we made mistakes but we are not _animals,_ your Grace. There are rules of engagement, trust in combat, so that by the end of a war we can sit down and we can discuss _peace._ ”

Sansa’s mind is taken back to Robb. To the rules that Walder Frey, Tywin Lannister and Roose Bolton had broken. How it had destabilized the seven kingdoms for a long while to come. It’s difficult to uphold the Guest Right now. Furthermore, it’s tricky to sit around the table with each other when the queen has been known to _blow up_ half her court.

“We agree. A mistake was made. -” Tyrion responds. “- But Samwell, from what you’ve told me, surely you understand that your father was not a good man, he-”

“No! -” Sam bellows, sounding angrier than she’s ever heard him before. “- Stop! You do not get to justify the _murder_ of my father by telling me how I _felt_ about him!”

“I merely meant…”

“What you meant to say was, Oh, it’s not so bad, we ‘solved’ a problem for you, isn’t that right!? Well, that’s not how it works! I disliked my father and my father hated me, but you know what? There was a chance! Even if it was ever so small, there was a chance that we would be able to reconcile our differences!”

There are tears glistening in his eyes, and he has to take a deep breath before he can continue.

“You took that from me! Our fights, our anger, those were just _moments_ in time. What you did is you didn’t just take those moments from me. You took _every moment of time_ we may have ever had away from us!”

For a second, it seems as if Sam might have said all he wanted to say, but then, one gulp of air later, he continues.

“And you know what else you did?! You took away the only person who understood what I felt about my father! You took away _my brother_. The one who was measured by the same impossible standard, the one who struggled with it as I did. The one who had nothing but kindness in his heart. That is what you took from me. So, don’t you dare telling me how I’m meant to feel about that!”

“Sam.” Jon’s hand rests at the back Samwell’s neck.

 “I know. I know. -” He murmurs. “- Don’t worry. I’m done.”

With that, he turns around and walks back to Gilly before hugging her. There’re no noises now, other than the soft crying of both Gilly and Shireen.

“This doesn’t happen again. -” Jon orders. “- Nobody gets burned. Not unless they’re already dead.”

“Careful now, _warden._ Or I might decide that my southern enemy is more pressing than my northern one.” Daenerys huffs.

And then Jon does something that is either incredibly smart or incredibly stupid. Sansa can’t quite decide yet.

“Fine. So go. Leave us here to die at the hands of the Night King. Let it be known to whatever will be left of humanity that the Mother of Dragons does not make good on her word.” It’s such an obvious bluff. If Daenerys can look beyond her pride, if she sees through this ruse, she’ll shrug her shoulders and be on her way.

“I don’t break my promises. I don’t betray people’s trust.” She’s speaking to Jon, but her eyes drift toward Varys.

“Good. I’m glad.” Jon nods at her and begins to walk away.

The rest of them follow as one, without so much as a word from their king in the North. Sansa’s not entirely keen on letting their Southern strangers alone in the Godswood, but she’s even less interested in telling them to leave or staying there with them.

Because judging by the look on Daenerys’s face, whatever happens here next will not be fun for anyone involved.


	15. A Spider's Web

The curtains are closed, the candles are off, she’s got blankets and pillows piled up on her bed and the light from the fire seems to come from far, even if it’s really only on the other side of her chambers.

_Our fights, our anger, those were just moments in time. What you did is you didn’t just take those moments from me. You took every moment of time we may have ever had away from us._

Sam’s words echo in Shireen’s mind once more, and she finds herself sniffling again. She doesn’t know why, but when she heard him say that, something got let loose inside of her heart. The memories of her father and even of her mother.

Especially her mother.

Because like Sam’s father, Shireen’s mother had not loved her child and Shireen herself had not entirely cared for her either.

Shireen had figured that that’s why she’d felt such a void of emotion after coming back to the living. She couldn’t forgive her parents for what they’d done and the cruelty with which they’d done it numbed her for whatever pain they may have felt in her absence. She didn’t miss them. Couldn’t really. when It’d been their choice to leave her and not the other way around.

But Sam’s words at the Godswood had made her realize that she was never going to get another chance to do things over. What they’d done had been a single instance of cruelty. The loss of them is a lifetime of not getting another chance to reconcile with that.

And that’s what finally broke through the layers and layers of ashes covering her grief. Which, Shireen guesses that bawling non-stop over the deaths of your parents and wishing they were somehow here again is a more normal response than what she’d done up until now.

But being numb was a lot easier.

She can feel her lip tremble again and yes, there are tears still. She’d thought she might’ve shed the last of them already, but here they are again.

Gods, the rest of Winterfell must think she’s gone completely insane.

Well, actually, that’s not true. The rest of Winterfell has been incredibly kind and patient with her mood. Just about everyone has come by in the past few days.

Sansa has been by every day, listening patiently to what’s been happening to her and how she’s feeling about it all. Aside from that, Shireen finds her to be the most reliable source on what’s going on outside the small confinements of her chambers. The world she’s not quite ready to face yet.

The answer? It’s not been great. In the aftermath of the news regarding the Tarly’s the tensions between North and South have risen significantly. Sansa tells her that they haven’t really seen Daenerys out and about in Winterfell since and that the Dothraki have been misbehaving once more.

And it’s not just them.

Much to her surprise, Shireen received a visit from Lyanna Mormont as well. She’d spoken about her own mother Maege, who died fighting in the Red Wedding. It’d saddened Shireen to hear that, but as always, she’d found strength in her words. More importantly though, Lyanna told her that she’d fallen out with Ser Jorah again. He’d overstepped his boundaries, or so she claimed, but Shireen is sure that he would say he was merely protecting his queen’s honour.

Family is difficult, she and Lyanna both agreed, but regardless of that, Shireen thinks that her friend is glad for Ser Jorah’s presence. Because they’re also one of the few Mormonts left nowadays.

Ser Davos has been bringing her meals up to her room. So, she hears a lot from him too. Even Jon and Daenerys themselves haven’t been able to fully reconcile their differences. But, he’d said they’ll get there eventually, so long as no-one is tossed to the dragons anymore, they can talk it over.

Arya, on the other hand, doesn’t seem so sure. She says that no-one’s really impressed with the queen anymore and that her dragons have been more a burden than anything else. They might as well be rid of them. Gendry on the other hand, is sure that they’ve still got plans for the lumbering monsters, but doesn’t know what exactly.

Bran has come to visit her surprisingly often as well, and she’s been trying to pick his brain on the matter, but he doesn’t seem to want to budge. What will happen, will happen and they’re better of making sure that Florys and Florian are doing alright, for now. Every time he’s with her, he lifts the little wolves off his lap and allows Shireen to pet and cuddle them for as long as she needs. Florian tends to be a bit resistant, so she often hands him back rather quickly, but Florys can’t seem to get enough of the attention.

She’s even talked to Gilly once, who came to see her very briefly. She’s broken up, just like Shireen is. Worried for her husband’s mother and sister. Worried for Samwell most of all. Shireen had told her that as soon as she was ready to leave her chambers, she’d come to see Sam. Give them some kind words in return. Gilly had smiled and had told her to tuck back into the blankets. This was going to take some time. She’d best be taking it now.

Brienne had said roughly the same, and so had Jon on the one very rare occasion when he’d come by. More out of obligation than anything else, she reckons. Which, she doesn’t blame him. He’s got enough to deal with as it is.

With everything that going on, it’s a miracle all these people found the time to visit her.

And they aren’t done yet, it seems, because there’s another knock on the door.

“Come in.” She snuffles.

Missandei’s lovely face appears in the doorway.

“I apologize for coming by so early.” She almost whispers.

“It’s early?” Shireen asks, because in truth, she would’ve guessed it to be closer to noon.

“We haven’t had time to break our fast yet. -” Missandei smiles, ruefully taking in the mess Shireen’s made of her chambers. “- But I had a moment to spare, so I thought…”

“Well, you’re welcome to stop by at any time. So, settle in, I guess?” She hops off the bed and tries to fashion herself into a somewhat manageable state of being.

“How are you feeling?” She sits down in one of the chairs by the fire.

“It’s been…weird.” Shireen joins her there.

“Did you know Maester Tarly’s family well?” Her hands are curled up in her lap, twitching with nerves every so often.

“No, not all, really. I guess I simply responded like that because I’ve recently lost my own parents. Hadn’t found a way to grieve for them yet. It’s been a bit messy. I’m sorry about that.” She has to wipe another tear away.

“I’m sorry you had to find out the way you did.”  Missandei stares at the fire.

“Were you there? When it happened, I mean.” Shireen feels as though she ought to ask a servant for a drink or a meal they might share.

“No. No, I wouldn’t…it is not a place for a handmaiden such as thi-…such as me.”

“Good. It’s not something you’d want to see. I don’t think.”

“Can I ask what happened to your parents? Or would you rather not talk about it.” There’s a small bit of cloth visible from the pockets of her dress. Grey rabbit fur.

_She still uses them._

“Yeah. I guess. They thought I was dead. Thought I’d been burned. So, my mother…-” For the first time, it’s almost insurmountably difficult to explain this. “- my mother took her own life and my father died in battle not long after that.”

Damn these tears. When will they stop coming?

“That’s terrible.” Missandei’s mutters so very softly it’s hard to hear over the crackling of the hearth.

“What about you? Are your parents still alive?”

“No. They died when the slavers came to take us. I was very young.” She sighs, but doesn’t sound particularly aggrieved by her loss anymore.

“Do you remember them?”

“I have a vague memory of them, of the shape of them, of my father teaching us how to hunt, but no more than that.”

“Do you miss them?” Shireen says, already regretting that she’s asked the question.

“You can’t miss what you can’t remember.” Missandei shrugs.

“Everyone should have a parent.” She thinks of Ser Davos. He’s been as near as anything for a good long while now.

“Well, I do have Queen Daenerys.”

“Queen Daenerys -” Shireen scrunches up her nose. “- but you’re almost the same age.”

Also, they call her the Mother of _Dragons_ not the mother of nice girls who visit you when you’re sad.

“She was mother to a lot of people who were a lot older than she is. In Slaver’s bay.” Missandei patiently explains.

“How come?”

“When she freed the slaves in Yunkai, she became their mother. In Astapor and in Meereen as well. She was the mother of the people.”

“Really?” It sounds a bit weird to Shireen. Freeing someone is one thing. Being their mother is something completely different.

“Yes. They called it out in the streets. ‘Mother’ they said, ‘Mhysa’.”

 _Mhysa is still a master and only blood will pay for treachery._ Bran’s words whisper out from her memories.

“Mhysa?!” The grief suddenly makes way for astonishment. “- Queen Daenerys is Mhysa?”

“She was…Yes.” she answers, blinking rapidly.

_She isn’t anyone. Mhysa doesn’t exist anymore._

“Wait. What exactly happened in Meereen?” Shireen asks because she can’t not. She has to know. Has to understand it now.

“Well,-” Missandei starts, and what follows is a story that puts all the pieces of Bran’s puzzle neatly together and one that unnerves Shireen more than she cares to admit.

* * *

 

Sansa is called to bring order to the ruckus early in the morning. She’s not been sleeping well, not since their confrontation in the Godswood and when she arrives at the ransacked room of the Guest House, she can already tell that it’s not going to go much better from here on out.

“Did you get them?” She asks, still out in the corridor.

“Caught them red-handed. -” Arya replies, putting her boot on one of the Dothraki riders she’s got tied up on the floor. “- Literally.”

“Govak!” he spits in return.

Both Stark sisters ignore it.

“And their victim?” Sansa looks towards the open door with a twist in her stomach.

“You can see for yourself. Brienne’s in there, but be warned, it’s not a pretty sight.”

The second of the three Dothraki tries to get up, but Arya gives him a swift kick in the flank to get him to lie down again.

This is truly the last thing any of them needed. And yet, at the same time, it’s not wholly unexpected. Not with the way everyone’s been behaving to one another. Their alliance is hanging on a thread of silk and the slightest movement in the wrong direction could sent it all spiralling downwards.

“Jon is on his way. So is Lord Tyrion and the Dragon Queen. Don’t overstep your boundaries. They need to be the ones to prove themselves. Not us.”

Arya looks chagrined, but nods nonetheless.

With that confirmation out of the way, Sansa makes way towards the chambers in question. It’s sparsely decorated, rather unlike how the previous occupant enjoyed it. Littlefinger liked his knickknacks, his displays of wealth too much to forgo them, even in Winterfell. When he’d died, whatever was left had been sold and the gold had been used to stock up the food storages just a little bit more.

Their new guest had not felt the same needs, it seems. There is a small desk, a hearth, a bed, a side table and nothing else. There are a few empty parchments and a quill that used to lie on the desk, but everything else is completely bare.

Nonetheless, the Dothraki brutes had made good use of what little options they had. They’d pushed the desk over, and left the supplies sprawled over the floor. The curtain’s been torn up and the fur rug was thrown in the fire.

And then there’s the bed.

The smell of iron and death had greeted her the moment she stepped into the chambers and if that hadn’t been enough to turn her stomach, then the sight of it now sure does. It’s a carnage. They didn’t even deem their victim worthy enough to remove the blankets. They’d simply torn right through them. Slit the throat of the bed’s occupant first, so that there wouldn’t be any noise and then, once they’d did that, they’d started slashing and carving until the person in the bed was nothing more than ribbons of flesh.

A red splotch of meat and bones underneath the cloth.

“By the Seven…” Sansa murmurs, and puts her sleeve in front of her face.

“This was an act of vengeance. -”Brienne tells her. “- whatever the cause, they wanted it to be a _display_ of power.”

“They wanted to show their wrath to all of us.” She exhales.

“Do you think that…?” Her knight moves to pick up one of the Arakhs that’s lying by the bed.

“That this was the queen herself? No. Maybe. It’s seems rather ostentatious and disadvantageous. If she didn’t want to honour our agreement she could’ve left after what happened in the Godswood.” Unless of course, the plan only failed because they caught the culprits. If someone had meant to put the blame on the North…

“But…?” Brienne raises an eyebrow.

“But anger is a powerful emotion. It makes us short-sighted and unpredictable.” She decides to leave it at that, thinking back of Joffrey and of all the wrongs he committed. Wrongs that sealed his fate in the end.

And speaking of Lannisters.

“The Imp’s here!” Arya’s voice carries in from out in the hallway and Sansa just _knows_ that she’s staring Lord Tyrion right in the eye when she’s calling him that.

With a set of heavy shoulders, Sansa goes to greet the man she once called her Lord Husband.

“My Lord.” She says, glaring at Arya as she goes. Her sister just shrugs.

“What’s happened? Where is Varys?” Well, at least if the queen had done this, she’d expect Tyrion to be more contrite.

“He’s in there, or what’s left of him is, anyway.” Arya pipes up. 

“Is this true?” He asks Sansa.

“I’m afraid so. It looks as though Lord Varys got caught on the wrong end of several arakhs.” And possibly the wrath of the Dragon Queen.

“Seven hells!” Tyrion groans.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Sansa tries.

“This is a disaster…” he puts his small hands over his eyes.

Which, she can’t find herself to disagree with that.  Jon may have called it burning, rather than outright murder, but it’ll be hard to justify this to any party involved. At best, it’ll be seen as a lack of leadership from Daenerys. At worst…well, at worst they’ll be dealing with an outright revolt between the camps.

“We’ll have to decide what to do with the wrongdoers.” She tells him, because that’s going to be complicated as well. The crime was executed on the grounds of Winterfell. In the North. Based on that, it might fall to Sansa and Jon to judge them. However, the victim was a man from Daenerys’s court, and so are the perpetrators. On those grounds, Daenerys should be the one to cast the sentence.

Oh yes, this will a problem.

Arya greets her brother…cousin?...She greets Jon as he arrives and wastes exactly no time telling him what happened and who she caught doing it.

Jon rakes a hand through his hair and let’s out a deep breath.

“Great. -” He concludes. “- That’s just wonderful.”

“I’ll agree to that.” Sansa hums.

“Arya, get out of here. I don’t want the queen catching you in this place.” Which is really another way of saying ‘let’s be diplomatic about this’.

“Why don’t I go and see if I can find the one person who might be able to clean up this mess?” Sansa lets her hand linger on Jon’s shoulder.

“Please do.” He briefly pats her hand and gives her a ghost of a smile.

She doesn’t like leaving Jon to face these problems by himself, but in truth, Daenerys is a lot less twitchy and a lot less aggravated when it’s just her and Jon.

Or at least, that’s what Sansa presumes based on the way they’ve acted in the past. She’s got no idea what’s going on with them right now. Not since the Godswood.

Still, she does as she proposed and lets her feet carry her from the Guest House and over the Courtyard. Once on the other side, she only has to slip past the small gate between the Guard Hall and the Keep to get to her goal: The Broken Tower.

Oh, how many accursed things have happened here. Lightning struck it well over a century ago, but the real tragedies lie much closer to the present. Bran was pushed there by Jaime Lannister, changing the course of her brother’s life forever. It is there that she asked Theon to light a candle, so that she might be saved. It was there that he disappointed her the most.

But none of that matters now. None of that stops the structure from serving its purpose today. She wanders inside and climbs the unsteady steps to the top. Just as agreed upon, the man she seeks is waiting for her there.

“Lord Varys.” She greets.

“Lady Sansa. -” He smiles. “- Am I to assume that our predictions were correct?”

“I think we can safely say that, yes.”

“Then I suppose I should thank you for offering up a suitable decoy at exactly the right time.” He does this movement that’s a cross between a curtesy and a nod. It’s not entirely familiar, but she understands the meaning all the same.

“Don’t thank me. Thank whatever gods you’re praying to that they allowed the kitchen matron to die two nights earlier.” She’d seen the woman once or twice before, a new arrival at Winterfell, but sadly an ill one. The resemblance to Lord Varys had been uncanny and well, once the threats to his life became obvious, something had to be done.

“The gods did not order for her head to be shaved and they certainly did not put her in my bed.”

No, they most certainly didn’t and it took quite some effort on Sansa’s part to get the family to agree to give up the body and allow it to be mutilated in the way that it had.

It’s not something she hopes to do twice.

“Either way, we’ll have to decide our next step from here on out.”

“Well, that begs the question; Do we believe that this was the act of a few lone men or was it an order from higher up the chain?” He’d come to her, in the evening after their confrontation and had told her that he believed his life was no longer safe.

At that point Sansa had carefully considered his motives. Did he come to her out of desperation or was it a trap laid out by the queen to test the loyalty of her new allies?

In the end, she’d decided it was neither. It was a test. Sansa’s sure that Lord Varys has plenty of means to get out and save his own hide should he need to. What he wanted, though, was the knowledge that House Stark would protect someone like him from the queen if needs be.

 _He doesn’t serve kings and queens._ Sansa reminds herself. _He serves the realm._

“It wasn’t an order. -” That much became clear from Tyrion’s reaction. “- but it was an influence. The Dothraki move because she _wants_ them to move. Had she not marked you as a target, consciously or not, then they would not’ve come for you.”

“An astute observation, my Lady. -” Varys agrees. “ -However, then we’ll still need to suss out if it was a conscious effort on behalf of Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Yes. We do. Sad to say that I can only think of one way to do that without giving away the cards in our hands.” She gives him a long, sharp look.

“Sad to say I can’t think of another one either. -” He hums. “- Oh well, back in the fray I go.”

“I’ll make sure Arya will keep shadowing you. She won’t stand out and can intervene whenever necessary.”

“That would be most appreciated.”

If Daenerys reins in her men based on their actions today, Arya won’t have to do much of anything. But if she doesn’t, if she lets this behaviour slide, if she doesn’t show the Dothraki that this has her disapproval…

Then they’ll definitely try twice.

“Come along then, let’s show your murderers that they’ll have to try a lot harder if they wish to disturb this particular web.” She gives Lord Varys a polite smile and motions him to move down the stairs.

“Oh, it would be my utmost pleasure indeed. -” Varys replies. “- Did you know that I was prophesized to die?”

“That doesn’t bode well for our efforts.” Sansa carefully climbs the steps.

“A Red Priestess told me I was meant to die in Westeros. Which, in all honesty, I have no plans of going back to Essos again. Anyone could’ve guessed that.” He sniffs.

“So, you might well live to hundred in Westeros?”

“Might very well. Bit of sham, isn’t it?” There’s a grace with which he walks, something that harkens back to his time in King’s Landing.

“You’re not worried then?”

“Oh, not at all, my lady, I don’t believe in prophecies.” He smiles and yes, a man like Varys surely would believe that one can make their own destiny.

After all, hadn’t they done just that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dothraki translation: "Fucker!"


	16. A Graceless Fall

Lord Varys had been murdered in the depth of night. They’d found his body, Brienne had told Shireen. They’d found it torn to shreds with the men who’d done the deed still cutting into it.

Lord Varys had been murdered.

And yet, here he is.

Entering the Great Hall while his would-be assassins are to stand trial for their crimes. Sansa walking gracefully by his side.

The reaction throughout the hall seems confused, to say the least. The accused Dothraki seem absolutely livid, shouting and spitting at him in their own tongue. The Northern lords appear amused, a bit smug perhaps, that their liege has apparently outsmarted everyone else. Lord Tyrion looks relieved, more so than she’s ever seen. But the Queen…

It’s very hard to tell what she’s thinking.

Her jaw is a taut line, but has been like that ever since the process started. There’s a smile on her face but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Quite the opposite, really. Her eyes are…It’s hard to find an accurate description, but Shireen finds that she might use Bran’s words to try anyway.

_Empty catacombs full of broken promises._

That’s what they look like. Empty, because they hold no sympathy or love for Lord Varys. Catacombs, because Shireen’s afraid that they might hold death.

And the broken promises…

It was her job to protect him. He was her advisor. He was meant to be her _friend._ They were meant to trust each other. And yet, she didn’t. She didn’t even try.

Yesterday, Shireen might have chalked up the queen’s behaviour to something else. A hard day. Bad weather. Low spirits.

Today, she knows better than expect anything else from her. This conqueror who’d abandoned the people that had needed her so.

“He’s alive. -” She hears her say. “- I’m confused. Why are my men on trial if he’s alive?”

“Because his survival is circumstantial providence, _your Grace,_ not a manifestation of your men’s intentions.” Sansa replies, her hands are folded over one another, ever so delicate, but there is strength in them, seen or unseen.

The Lady of Winterfell will not allow murder within the walls of her castle and everyone knows it.

“That may be so, but what do you want me to do now?”

“We would ask that you treat your men for their intent.” Jon adds, but doesn’t present her with a guideline as to what that might mean.

“I believe you were the one who said there would be no more burning.” She snaps back at him.

“And I stand by those words. They can avoid death, same as Lord Varys has done.” The King in the North retaliates.

“But you want me to punish them, regardless?”

“If I may be so bold, your Grace. We _could_ send them to the Wall. Let them serve as brothers of the Night’s Watch.” Lord Tyrion suggests, having clearly learnt from their confrontation in the Godswood.

Daenerys takes one long look at the men and then lets her eyes linger on Varys.

“Leave them on some godforsaken wall? No. I won’t.”

Something in Shireen’s throat clogs up. Something malevolent begins to stir there. She cannot mean this. Can she?

“Your men tried to murder him. Serving the Night’s Watch is a more honourable life than what they wished upon Lord Varys.” Sansa is not standing on the same plateau as Daenerys and Jon are, isn’t elevated like they are, so how come she looks to be the biggest of them all?

 “I will _not_ abandon my people.” Daenerys repeats and Shireen’s hands ball to tight fists without meaning too.

“Your Grace, you wouldn’t be-” Jon starts, but it’s already too late.

Shireen has stood up.

“Yes, you _would_! -” She shouts, voice echoing through the entire hall. “- You _would_ abandon your people and you _will_ break your promises!”

She’s not sure where she’s finding the courage for this, perhaps the spirit of Lyanna Mormont is possessing her, but whatever it is, it will not permit her to be silent now.

“You abandoned the people of Yunkai, Astapor and Meereen. They trusted you! They believed in you! You are _not_ just the mother of Dragons, _you were their mother too_ and you left. You took your ships, you took your dragons and you left them with _nothing_. And do you know what happened? They felt betrayed, they felt angry, and I don’t know who you left in charge of that pyramid, but they paid for their loyalty in blood!”

Whispers rise up in the silence that follows, the Northerners, on their part, seem impressed. The Dothraki seem untouched by what she’s told them, but the Unsullied? The Unsullied are talking amongst themselves. Even the stern one seems to consider Shireen’s words with a thoughtful look on his face.

Missandei, though, seems horrified. Her hands are clenched over her mouth and suddenly, Shireen realizes the mistake she’s made.

Because Shireen was never meant to know about Meereen. Was never meant to use that against Missandei’s queen. And now Daenerys will come to the inevitable conclusion that someone told her all about it.

And if that leads back to Missandei…

If that puts her in the same position as Varys…

_Oh no. What have I done?_

“Ser Davos, I suggest you silence your child before I have my men do it for you!” the Dragon Queen snarls and she can feel his large hand resting on her shoulder, gently pulling her back to sit on the bench again.

A discussion starts between Sansa, Jon and Daenerys, but Shireen can’t bear to listen to it. In fear that she might hear more atrocities, that she might come to understand what Daenerys will do when she finds out that it was Missandei who told Shireen about Meereen.

No. Her ears are not ready for this, even though she knows they ought to be.

Instead, she turns to the person on her left.

“Bran.-” She whispers. “- Bran, what do you think will happen to her? Do you think she’ll live?”

“The snow hides them all.” Bran doesn’t bother to whisper, his murmur is low enough, and the entirety of the Hall is staring at their leaders anyway.

“What does that mean?”

“The wind is too strong and the tracks are wiped away too fast.”

“Can you see her?” She asks.

“No. I can’t. I am somewhere else.”

“Past or present?” It’s become a game of late, to guess what exactly Bran is seeing. She’s gotten it right a few times now, but in other matters, such as with Meereen, the details elude her for a long time.

“Neither. -” He replies. “- I am where it mattered the most.”

And then, he does something that is wholly unlike him. He reaches out and entwines his hand with hers.

“Bran?” She asks, staring at him.

“He’s here. -” Bran mutters. And then again. “- He’s here.”

The grip on her hand grows tighter and tighter while Bran just keeps looking at her like that. He’s here but not at all. But it isn’t like it always is. It’s not a riddle. It’s not a puzzle.

He gurgles.

A red tear slides down his cheek. And then another and another and another.

Blood begins running from his nose.

“Bran?” Shireen tries again, before raising her voice once more. “- Bran?!”

He coughs. And there’s more blood still, spilling over his lips. The grip on her hand is bruising now and the gurgling continues, before morphing into a terrible choking sound.

“Oh Gods, Bran!” She screams.

Suddenly, Arya is there, running and leaping over the table towards them and shouting as well.

“Get him out of that cloak! Free his throat and chest!”

“Sam! Find me Sam! Find me a Maester!” Sansa’s voice comes from somewhere far away.

Jon is suddenly on the other side of her, trying get him out of the chair and trying to free Shireen’s hand from Bran’s grip alongside Ser Davos.

“That’s it, love. It’s alright. It’s alright.” He susses, but nothing is alright, not so long as Bran is making that awful noise, not so long as he can’t breathe.

“Help him! You have to help him, please!” She cries.

Her fingers are free from Bran’s now, and Ser Davos pulls her away while other people begin to lift Bran from his chair and to…to elsewhere.

Shireen doesn’t know. She remembers that at some point she’s in the hallway, but the walls seem to be spinning and nothing seems to be real. There are black spots behind her eyes and Ser Davos sounds like he’s miles away when he tells her to breathe, to just breathe.

But if Bran can’t, how can she?

The blackness becomes larger, filling up her view and swallowing the world around her.

And then? Then there’s just nothing left of anything. There’s only the darkness, pulling her under all over again.

* * *

 

There’s a blizzard wreaking havoc outside. Must’ve come on just after the trial started and Sansa absentmindedly tries to remember if everything was sealed and secure for a storm like this. Still, inevitably, her thoughts wander back to where it’s been for well over an hour now, to a place where she is helpless and ignorant.

The chamber and the bed behind her.

There’s a vision there that she’s trying not to think about because there is nothing that she can do. Every time she remembers what happened in the Hall, her heart stops for a moment. Her mind envisions all the possible outcomes and all the tragedies they might have lived. And once she’s done that, she has to remind herself of the most important thought of all.

Bran’s alive.

Mercifully, barely so, but he is _alive._

He’s not awake. He’s still floating somewhere in the neverthere, but he is alive, and that’s what she holds onto.

Has to hold onto, really, because they still have no clue what happened. Arya thinks it’s poison, but doesn’t know _which_ poison it could possibly be. In any case, she seems very ready to blame the Dragon Queen for this one.

But that doesn’t make _any_ sort of sense.

Sansa’s ran past every possible motive and every possible opportunity there might have been, but Bran ate the same food as they did, drank the same wine. Bran has nothing to do with the mess that is Varys’s murder, doesn’t pose any sort of threat to her. Oh, he could surely conjure up more dark secrets from the Queen’s past, but then again, so can Varys. So can Tyrion. So can Shireen, apparently.

It’s a nonsensical move. Daenerys wouldn’t _do_ that.

Meanwhile, Jon has said that he won’t cast any sort of judgement until Sam is done with his examination. A Raven’s been sent to Maester Wolkan already, but with the storm raging outside, who knows when that will arrive? They are reliant on Sam now. Wholly and completely reliant on what he’s learned during his time with Maester Aemon and the books he read in Oldtown.

Sansa agrees, though, they _should_ wait. They have no other choice _but_ to wait.

“Right. So.” Sam’s voice permeates the silence, and Sansa turns to look at him, to look past the ghastly image of Bran, lying motionless in the bed.

“Did you find anything?” Jon croaks from his place by Bran’s bedside.

“He’s got three broken ribs, I think. A broken knee and wrist too. Both on his right side.”

“What in the seven hells…? Arya squints her eyes.

“How could that have possibly happened?” Sansa finds herself asking, because at least poison made _some_ sort of sense. If someone had hurt Bran like that, they would’ve known. They would’ve seen, right?

Right?

“I…I don’t know.” Sam admits.

“Has someone been beating him?” There’s a dangerous edge to Jon’s voice, and Sansa almost pities their hypothetical assaulter for what Jon will do to him. Almost.

“No. No, I’ve seen plenty of that at the Night’s Watch. This is different. It’s like…Do you remember when Halder tripped and fell from the elevator as it was going up the wall?”

“Yeah, that was a long way down.” Jon sighs.

“It was, and that’s what this looks like, Jon. Your brother’s got the same injuries as Halder did. As if he fell from a height, like he smacked onto the ground with great force.”

“Halder couldn’t get up after that. They had to carry him to Maester Aemon. Didn’t woke up until much later. How could Bran have fallen like that and sat at the trial afterwards?” He rests the palms of his hands on his eyes.

“I have no idea. It’s almost impossible.”

Sansa sighs deeply. Clearly, Sam knows what to do next, Halder woke up eventually, so perhaps they can make sure that Bran will do so as well, but the web of possibilities has only grown larger and more complex than it already was. Then again, _impossible_ seems right on par with the dragons and the dead rising.

She just doesn’t know what do anymore.

Can’t mean anything for Bran right now. She’s not her mother, she can’t sit by his bedside for hours on an end. There’s too much to do, too much to consider. They have to find out who did this, what happened and it’s not going to happen if all three of them just _sit_ here.

“I’m going…I’m going to…Go. I’m going to go.” She stutters, already reaching for the door, avoiding Arya, Jon, Sam and most of all Bran’s lifeless body.

No-one stops her, but she can feel their eyes on her as she closes the door behind her.

Once out into the cool corridor, Sansa allows herself to take a deep breath in and then one out. And then, she hears a slight squeak coming from her right.

Sitting curled up against the wall, is Shireen. The last time Sansa had seen her, Ser Davos had been dragging her away from the chaos surrounding Bran. She was probably halfway out of it at that moment as well.

“Shireen? -” She asks, crouching down on her hunches before her and noticing two very familiar squirming grey pups. “- What are you doing here?”

“I know I’m not supposed to be here. I know you probably don’t want me here after what I did, but-”

“Shush. Stop right there. You did not do anything. What happened to Bran was not your fault.” Not unless Shireen has managed to acquire some even more miraculous abilities than defying death in the past few weeks.

“Didn’t I? I asked him the question. I shouldn’t have asked him.”

“What could you have possibly asked him that would’ve caused this?”

The tears are still rolling down Shireen’s cheeks and before Sansa can stop herself, she wipes them off with her thumb, just like she used to do for Rickon. She does it for both cheeks and barely stops to think about the greyscale, because it’s not contagious, and even it was, what’s the point of worrying about it in dire times like these?

“I asked him about Missandei. I asked him if she’d be alright, if he could see that. And then he said he couldn’t see through the snow, that it was wiping away all the tracks and then he kept saying ‘he’s here’ over and over and I…” she breathes in an unsteady gulp of air and Sansa worries that if she continues like this, she might pass out again.

“Well, whatever it was, whatever Bran saw, he probably would’ve seen it anyway. You and I can’t stop him from his wandering gaze. Not when we never had a clue of what he was looking at in the first place.”

Shireen nods. Florys, or Florian, hard to tell from this angle yips, reminding both of them of their presence.

“Now, why don’t you go and take these two to see Bran. They’d like that, and I think you’d like that too, right?” She remembers Summer, sitting vigilant by Bran’s bed when he’d…the first time, anyway. The direwolf had kept him warm, had kept him safe. Not that these two are quite ready to face off against an assassin, but it feels right. They ought to be there.

And if Sansa can’t bear to be in there, then perhaps Shireen can take her place, can be for Bran what she cannot.

“Yeah. Yes, alright.” Shireen snuffles and carefully holds the pups in her arms while getting up. Sansa strokes each of their small backs and then watches as Shireen enters Bran’s chambers.

Good.

That’s good.

One more thing arranged.

Now, onto a thousand other.

The first of which being Brienne, apparently, because she all but crashes into Sansa on her way out of the keep.

“My lady.” Her back is tense, her mouth a thin line.

“Yes, Brienne, what is it?”

“I…I don’t mean to disturb you now, not while your brother is…well, while he isn’t…-”

“I cannot change my brother’s condition in any shape or form -” Her voice nearly trips up when she says the words. “- So, by all means, please disturb me from this nightmare.” 

“A rider arrived at the South Gate about an hour ago. And I…It didn’t seem appropriate to bring him to you when…” She seems unusually skittish for a woman who didn’t even blink an eye at the thought of taking on Ramsay Bolton by herself.

“Hmmm. I see. Thank you for your prudence. I suppose we best go and greet our guest in the courtyard then.”

The storm is still raging when they leave the Keep and the only people outside are a few stragglers and some guards, wrapped tightly in their coats or cloaks. No small wonder, because the wind blows like an angry god and the snow that whirls past her feels like a cold knife.

Brienne leads her onwards though, towards the centre of the yard. There, their traveller awaits them. He is shabbily dressed and all by himself, she recognizes a southern armour and a cloak that is woefully unprepared for the weather, but not much else. His face is covered by a scarf of some kind, a far too thin one. When they approach, though, he takes it off and bends the knee.

In all honesty, it takes Sansa a long moment to recognize him, but when she does, it feels as though the cold can no longer hurt her, can no longer bite into her bare fingers and face.

The face of the rider leaves her numb. As numb as his golden hand must be.

Jaime Lannister looks much older than he did at the wedding that killed his son, but it pales in comparison to how he looked when he first arrived at Winterfell.

When he’d…

When her brother had…

Her breath stalls. Whispers begin to scream in her mind:

_As if he fell from a height, like he smacked onto the ground with great force._

_he couldn’t see through the snow, that it was wiping away all the tracks_

_He’s here…_

_He’s here…_  

Bran had told them what happened to him, who the real culprit in his fall had been. He’d not remembered it, so much as that he’d seen it from a distance. It’d been the Kingslayer who’d thrown him from the Broken Tower.

The man who arrived at the exact same moment as Bran began having his fit. When he’d had seen something hidden by snow. When he’d warned them of an arrival. She doesn’t know what sort of dark magic that accursed family might possess, but she knows that does not want to wait until someone else suffers Bran’s fate.

“Seize him!” She shouts.

Every knight in the courtyard is drawing arms and surrounding their new prisoner.

Every one of them, except Brienne.

“Well, I suppose that was to be expected.” The smug arsehole deadpans.

“Where are your armies, _Ser?_ ” She bites back.

“You remind me of your mother, do you know that?” He even has the audacity to smile.

“Answer the question if you want to live.” He doesn’t have the right to speak of her mother, not after everything that befell her at the hands of his father.

He does answer the question, though. It’s a murmur, spoken with a bowed head, the sounds immediately lost in the storm howling around them.

“Speak up, Ser!” Sansa orders, she has neither the time nor the patience for this.

“There are no armies.”

“What?”

“I said, there are no armies. Cersei lied. There’s no-one coming but me. I’m the only one.” He heaves as if he’s fought an entire war over this.

And honestly? Sansa _wishes_ she still had the capacity to feel betrayed or surprised for the turn of events.

 _Of course,_ Cersei lied. _Of course,_ she’s not sending her armies. It is not in her nature to help others, that much Sansa had learned during the Battle of the Blackwater.

But if their stand against the Dead had hinged on Cersei’s armies in any way, then they might as well have given up from the start.

“We’ll have to inform Jon.”

And the Bannermen. And the knights of the Vale. And the Free Folk. And the Unsullied. And the Dothraki.

And Daenerys.

They’ll have to tell Daenerys.

Without waiting for a reply from Brienne, Sansa turns on her heel and heads back towards the Keep. They’ll have to make plans. They’ll have to consider their options. They’ll…

“My Lady, -” Brienne asks. “- What about him?”

“Take him away. Let him enjoy the inside of our dungeons for the crimes he committed here.”

She cannot do much for her brother. But this? Oh, this she can most certainly do.


	17. A Fight for Flight

It’s quiet in Bran’s chambers. Quiet and dark. The sun hasn’t wholly set, so they haven’t lit any candles just yet, but the light is fading quickly. It’s like that for most days now, only an hour or two of daylight and then they’re plunged into darkness once more.

_The Long Night._

Shireen is finally starting to understand why they call it that. Although, she doesn’t feel like sleeping. Doesn’t really want to crawl under the covers of her bed and wait until dawn comes along once more. All she wants right now is for Bran to wake up. To be his usual unshakeable self. To give her some more hints on what he’s seen.

Did he know what sort of occult practices Ser Jaime had turned to in order to hide his own wrongdoings? Was his fit the last way to tell them all what had happened?

When Sansa had announced it, even Arya and Jon had reluctantly left their brother’s bedside. The situation was too dire now. The armies of King’s Landing were meant to make up a third of their troops. If they weren’t already woefully unprepared for the arrival of the Others, they sure are now.

And so, preparations had to be made. Plans had to be shared. People had to be gathered.

But not by Shireen, thankfully. The only thing she has to do right now, is keep her vigil at Bran’s side. Watch over the pups. Yes, all seven of them, they’ve been brought up to join Florys and Florian.

And Shireen has to admit that they’ve come a long way since birth. They don’t sleep as much as they used to, and have gotten quite adept at scurrying around towards the edge of the bed. Shella most of all. She might be small, but she’s quicker than her brothers and sisters and twice as fearless as well.

Which is why Shireen is keeping her on her lap now, instead of with the others, because it saves them all a lot of time, and it gives her the chance to mend some more socks.

It also gives her the space to talk to Bran.

“Have you ever read about the previous winters? Could be that they last one year or five or so. I really rather hope that this one won’t be an actual Long Night. We’d all be left dying in the dark and the cold. -”

Well, Bran might still die in the dark and the cold, even if this winter lasts less than a year, but Shireen promises herself that she’ll not entertain terrible thoughts like that for too long.

“- Did you know that people would get sick from the cold? It’s…I found it in a book. It’s called the Shivers. You get chills one day and then the next day you’re just _dead._ ”

And Shireen had thought that greyscale was an aggressive disease.

Interestingly enough, when leafing through the pages, Shireen had found a very familiar name amongst them. _Daenerys Targaryen._ Not the Dragon Queen they’d come to know of course, but a mere child of seven who had died from the disease.

Still, her death had caused quite a stir, because the Targaryens were not supposed to be like other people. King Jaehaerys had decreed it so. They were Valyrian, meant to be exceptional. Above the laws and perils of other mortals.

And yet, Daenerys had not been.

She’d died, just like the rest of them. Not chosen by the gods. Not gifted with abilities that might’ve saved her life. Nothing exceptional about it.

In the end, she was just a girl, like they all are.

“Isn’t it weird, Bran? -” Shireen sighs. “- how people can seem so large at first and then so small afterwards.”

Some, though, are the other way around. She hadn’t thought much of Bran when they’d first met. Had found him a bit peculiar even. But after learning what he went through, here in Winterfell and beyond the wall, when she thinks of what he may have seen, Shireen considers that he might be the grandest of them all.

And she really needs him to wake up.

Before she can tell him that, though, there’s a knock on the door.

“Come in!” She shouts at the person on the other side, scaring the pups with her loud voice.

They don’t get a lot of time to recover from the shock, though, because the moment her voice has carried the message, the door bangs open and in come two disgruntled guards with a very upset Missandei in-between them, held in place by their large hands around her upper arms.

Her face is red with tears and her eyes are wide with fright.

“What’s the meaning of this?!” There is _no_ reason whatsoever for the Northern men to scare her friend like that.

“Found her standing outside your chambers, M’lady, screaming the bloody murder she was. -” One of the guards huffs. “- Wanted to see you, but refuses to tell us why.”

He doesn’t trust her. None of the Northerners trust Daenerys and her troops. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Missandei is just as much a part that as those rotten Dothraki are.

“P-please! I didn’t know who else to turn to!” Missandei cries, trembling and struggling against their hold.

Shireen gazes at Bran and the pups, assessing whatever danger they might be in when the guards leave. Not because she mistrusts her friend, but because it’s her duty now. She has to look after more than just herself.

Still. It’s _Missandei._

She wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone a boy and seven pups.

“Leave us.” Shireen instructs the guards, trying to sound like Sansa or Arya.

It must work, though. Because the two men merely look at each other, shrug and then quietly shuffle out of the door, letting go of Missandei in the process. She looks so unsteady that Shireen is afraid she might topple over soon, so instead of waiting for that to happen, she decides to engulf her friend wholeheartedly into a hug.

“What happened? What’s wrong?” She asks.

“We were in the courtyard and now she’s leaving _,_ Shireen. She heard what the man in the courtyard said and _she’s leaving._ I…I just...I didn’t know how to stop her.” Missandei stutters.

“Who is?”

“The queen. She didn’t want to listen. Didn’t want to wait or talk. She just…she’s going to fly away. We fought and I couldn’t…”

“Daenerys is leaving.” Shireen takes a step backwards to look her in the eyes.

“Yes.” Missandei snuffles.

“Without you?”

“Without anyone.” She confirms.

Well, not without anyone, Shireen reckons, because wherever the queen goes, her monstrous children go with her, and while they _might_ be able to survive without the queen herself, she guesses that their survival does sort of hinge on having two or three dragons available to fight the wights.

Which is why, much as she might like to, Shireen cannot get into the matter of consoling Missandei over the fight she’s had and the loss she must be feeling from being abandoned by her…queen? Mother? Something like that.

No, there is one thing that has to take precedence over all of that.

“We have to tell Sansa.”

* * *

 

“I used to admire him, actually.” Jon huffs.

“I did too.” Sansa mumbles.

“You were both idiots back then.” Arya adds.

They’re standing outside the dungeons, with a set of thick walls and well-trained knights between them and Jaime Lannister, trying to decide what in the Seven Hells they’re meant to do with the man now.

“Do you think it’s a trick?” Sansa asks her sister.

“No, he doesn’t have the wits for it. -” She snorts. Which, fair enough, Sansa had also assessed that of the twins, Jaime had been the muscles, Cersei the unfortunate mastermind. “- What I want to know is why he came here, because everyone with even a grain of cunning would know to stay away from the ally you’ve betrayed.”

“Honour. That’s why he came here.” Sansa answers and thinks of Robb, meeting with Walder Frey, even after he’d broken his promise of marrying old Walder’s daughter.

But if that is the reason why he came here, and Sansa can scarcely think of another, then why do this to Bran. Why risk angering an already wrathful ally even further?

“What are we going to do with him now?” Jon turns to the both of them, and honestly? Sansa’s first instinct is to wring the truth from him and then let him rot in behind bars, for all she cares.

But that’s not very productive.

“Mother intended to bargain his life for mine. I suggest we do the same. He is leverage to Cersei, one way or another, I suggest we keep him until we find a situation worth leveraging.” She sighs, hoping that those two Lannisters are still as thick as the incestuous thieves they once were.

Jon and Arya don’t get the chance to respond to that, because there’s a howl coming from down the corridor.

It echoes and bounces off the walls and turns into her name when it reaches them. Then, another shout, the same word, echoing and bouncing from just a little bit closer by. Next thing she knows, Shireen comes barrelling down the hallway, out of breath, followed closely by the queen’s handmaiden.

“Sansa!...Sansa!” Shireen heaves.

“Is Bran alright?” She asks, because she distinctly remembers leaving the girl with her brother.

“Yes…Well, obviously not. But he’s not gotten any worse or better.” She rests her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s the queen. -” the handmaiden, Missandei, answers. “- We overheard you on the courtyard. She’s…”

“She’s leaving. She’s going to take her dragons and she’s going to go. Now.” Shireen again, sending them all into a flurry.

“If she takes those dragons…” Sansa turns to Jon.

“We need them. She knows we need them.” His face is pale, and his feet are already moving to leave the dungeon.

“The Dragon Pit. We have to get there before she does.” Arya adds and follows Jon alongside Sansa, Shireen and Missandei.

They don’t wait for more men.

They don’t stand and discuss who gets to come and who doesn’t.

Every one of them understands what will happen if they waste any more time.

They don’t saddle horses themselves, simply commandeer the ones that are already available in the courtyard.  There’s four of them. Jon, Arya and Sansa take one each while Missandei and Shireen decide to share one.

Somewhere in the hassle, Brienne and Ghost join them. Silently, vigilantly and most importantly, ready to ride off without stalling.

The darkness has well and truly set in when they leave the gates and the snowstorm hasn’t let up in the least bit. The riding is uneasy and difficult, furthermore, they’re looking for a single woman in a pristine white coat. Nearly impossible under the circumstances.

But that doesn’t stop their white furred predator from finding her. Ghost has trained himself to do exactly that. Jon doesn’t even need to ask him, the direwolf already seems to know what they’re doing and where they’re meant to go.

It doesn’t take long and Sansa guesses that they’re about halfway to the Dragon Pit when they spot her silhouette in the distance. If they’d had knights to their disposal, then perhaps Sansa would suggest surrounding the queen, but as it stands, all they do is line up, huddled together in the cold, facing the Dragon Queen together.

“Daenerys!-” Jon bellows over the storm.“- Stop this!”

“Why?! So that I can be lied to some more?! So you people can insult and degrade me again?! So that I can watch you twist and turn that which belongs to me against me?!” She shouts back, gaze skating over her poor handmaiden, who looks as though she’s been slapped in the face.

Afterwards, it takes Jon a moment to recover from her scathing words, but he does come around eventually.

“Whatever we may have said or done to hurt you, surely, we can talk about it! Come to a solution.” He gets off of his horse and carefully approaches her on equal footing.

“I know a solution, and I’ll take it to Cersei myself!” She sneers.

“We need you here. That is the truth and you know it. Once we’ve defeated the Night King we can-” He tries, but it is to no avail.

“No. I don’t need to bargain with the likes of _you._ I am the heir to the Iron Throne. The queen of the Seven Kingdoms and I will take what is mine _with fire and blood_ , and that is the only truth that matters to me!” There is something deeply frightening about watching this small woman screaming as if the Gods themselves might be listening.

They’re probably not, though.

But Jon is. Oh, he is listening very carefully and by the nod of his head, Sansa knows that he’s only got one strategy left, one desperate plea that they’d all hoped he’d never had to use.

“Fine. You want the truth? The one that matters? My mother was Lyanna Stark of Winterfell and she was taken to a tower in Dorne by your older brother Rheagar. She died there, giving birth to her only son. _Me._ I am Rheagar Targaryen’s last living heir, which means that by right, the Iron Throne belongs to me. Not to you.”

“You’re lying.” She hisses, eyes growing wide with disbelief.

“No, I’m not. We’ve got the records from Oldtown to prove it. But this doesn’t need to plunge us into another war -” he holds out his gloved hand to her. A black figure to the white apparition that she makes. “- Accept my hand in marriage and we will rule the Seven Kingdoms together. We will defeat the enemy in the North _together._ ”

 For the briefest of moments, it seems as though the Daenerys is considering the option and suddenly, Sansa sees a future ahead of her. One where _she_ is a Warden to King Aegon Targaryen and his Queen Daenerys. She’ll never see her brother…her cousin…her beloved _Jon_ again, but they’ll be safe. Their king will make sure of that. Will give anything to make sure that their family is protected and cared for.

It’s a dreadful image, for all the wrong reasons. The North would flourish under Jon’s rule, but they would do so _without_ Jon. The King in the North would become the King in the South, but at least it would be the _right_ king, the king they wanted. The one Sansa wanted _with_ them, not _for_ them.

A roar shakes her from her terrible vision.

The snow above them stops falling ever so briefly, caught by the enormous looming shadow hanging over them. Then, with an earth-shaking tremor, Daenerys’s monster lands right in front of them.

“I don’t need you to take the Seven Kingdoms. -” She tells him, hand already on the large scales behind her. “- I don’t need anyone.”

She mounts her dragon with ease, and all they can do is watch, because there are rows of teeth and a breath of fire standing firmly between them and her.

Once she’s up there, Sansa fears that she might decide to burn them all anyway. The look in her eyes certainly seem to spell so, but when she sees Missandei, her loyal friend, there’s a moment of hesitation and Sansa almost believes that she doesn’t want to do this.

Almost.

“I’ll come back to deal with this later.” Daenerys snaps at them and then, with a gale of dragon wings and a flurry of snow, she ascends into the dark night. Her second dragon not far behind them.

“We need those dragons.” Arya reacts immediately and despite knowing that there’s no way their horses can keep up with those flying behemoths, she begins the chase.

Jon is on his horse quick enough as well and before long, they’re riding together across the snowy plains of the north. Arya up ahead, followed closely by Jon and herself on each side. Behind Sansa rides Shireen and on the other side, behind Jon, is Brienne.

The storm is heavy, but she’s ridden in the snow before and so have the horses. The dragons however, seem slower than they did when they first arrived. When the sky was still clear. Co-ordinating is easy. Arya knows what she’s doing and Sansa has known everyone else with them well enough to know who is going where and what they might do.

Shireen is slower, but she knows how to keep up, Brienne might feel the need to speed up, but sticks with Jon to stay out of the worst of the weather. That’s how all of them ride together, as a pack, until the cold has crept into their fingers and the horses are breathless and unwilling.

But that’s not what stops them.

No, what brings them to standstill eventually is the river. The current is too strong for it to have frozen over completely and thank the gods that Arya knows exactly where the bank stops and the ice begins, otherwise Sansa fears that their Southerners might have driven straight into it.

She halts them with a gesture of her hand and jumps off the horse, going as far forward as she can. Jon and Sansa follow, but none of them can do much more than watch the Dragon Queen fly away.

“Fuck!” Arya yells.

“She’ll come back. She will.” Jon’s voice trembles.

“Of course she will, and then she’ll lay waste to the whole of Winterfell.” Her sister snarls.

“There must be some way…There has to be a way.” Sansa murmurs, and feels the warm fur of Ghost’s head quietly slip under her hand.

He’s such a loyal beast.

A Stark through and through.

“I know what we can do! -” Sansa breathes out, the thought coming as quickly as the despair had crept up on her. “- The wolf dreams!”

“The wo-…Oh, that is good. That might just do.” Arya smirks.

“What?” Jon raises his eyebrows.

“The wolf dreams. The ones where you walk in Ghost’s skin.” She tries.

“I don’t…know. I dream of him sometimes yes, but I don’t _warg_ into him.” Jon insists.

“You what now?” Arya replies, but they don’t have time for nomenclatures now.

“You did. You have. You knew where everyone’s chambers were before you came back to Winterfell because Ghost had been visiting them every night. He stopped doing that when you came back, because you didn’t need him to walk there anymore.” Sansa pulls at his shoulder, willing him to remember.

“I…Alright. Perhaps I did, but how will that help us now?!”

“You’re a Targaryen! Those are dragons. _Your_ inheritance. If a Stark can reach a direwolf, then surely a Targaryen can reach a dragon!” Arya points at the disappearing creatures in the distance.

“Bran might. He probably could. He can do many things like that.” Jon admits.

“He can’t do anything right now. You can.” Sansa looks into his eyes, his perfect dark eyes and silently begs him to at least _try._

“You must. -” Arya adds. “- It’s all we’ve got left now.”

“Fine. Alright, fine! But just…I’ve never done this before.” He tells them, and takes a deep breath while closing his eyes.

And then, all that’s left for them to do is wait. Wait for some sign. Something that might tell them that-

Jon collapses.

Arya and Sansa have to catch him immediately, lest he splits open his head on the hard rocks of the riverbank. When she looks at his face, his eyes are as white as the snow around him. But when she turns to Ghost, _his_ eyes are still as red as they’ve ever been.

“He’s out there. Somewhere.” She finds herself whispering, laying her hand on Jon’s warm cheek.

“Yeah. I know where he is. Look!” Arya shouts and sure enough, there’s movement in the black sky again. The yellow and bronze colour of its wings are hard to see in the light of the moon, but when it flies over them, she knows for sure.

Jon is in there. He’s guiding the dragon back to them. Back to Winterfell.

“Get him on a horse! We need to follow that beast.” Arya commands and within the blink of an eye, Brienne is helping them get Jon safely saddled with her. Missandei takes Jon’s horse, while Sansa and Arya lead their pack back home.

They still have chance.

They might just have a chance now.


	18. A Caged Animal

The road back to Winterfell is long and harsh and despite the fact that they’ve ridden just as far and just as fast as when they left it behind, going back towards it feels almost unsurmountable to Shireen. No matter the fact Missandei is now on a horse of her own. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s _because_ Missandei is on her own horse that Shireen feels the cold far more, feels the responsibility of keeping up to the group so heavily.

But she’ll maintain.

She will.

If Jon can whisk his very soul off into a dragon, then Shireen can ride back to Winterfell, it’s as simple as that.

Still, her mind lingers on what they’ve lost, on what Daenerys the Dragon Queen might do next. To King’s Landing, Shireen guesses. She’d said as much, after all. But what good will _one_ dragon do against the biggest city in Westeros?

Then again, she’s heard what happened to Harrenhal, and that was just _one_ dragon against the biggest castle of Westeros. But would she really do that? Would she really do to King’s Landing what Aegon the conqueror did to Harren and his people?

There’s no telling now.

When they finally approach the gates of Winterfell, it becomes clear that the chaos has already begun to stir. Shireen can see movement in the camps. The Dothraki are shouting, saddling up their own horses and picking fights with whatever wildlings they might be able to find.

“What are they doing?” Sansa asks, turning to her sister.

But it is not her sister that answers.

“They…I…I believe they might be trying to…enslave them.” Missandei mutters, the tears having never left her eyes.

“They are _what_ now?! -” She snaps. “- Arya, go. Rally the bannermen. _All of them_. Protect the Free Folk at any cost.”

“If they think they’re going to pillage this castle before abandoning it, then they’ve got another thing coming for them.” And with those words, Arya gives her horse the spurs and disappears towards the gate. 

Sansa seems to want to move back towards her people as well, but then without warning, there’s a gasp, coming from her left side.

“Jon!” The concern is immediate, and in the distance, the dragon begins to thrash and thunder about.

“Gendry. -” He gasps. “- The armour is made with chains.”

And that’s it. Just like that, he’s gone again. Eyes white and voice muted.

“Shireen. Go and find Gendry. Ask him…Ask him whatever _that_ might mean.” Sansa orders and there’s not a hair on her head that thinks of denying the command.

“Will you come with me?” Shireen asks Missandei, because she doesn’t know what she might face when she rides through the gates of Winterfell and is afraid to do it alone.

“Can I?” Missandei’s eyes find their way towards Sansa.

“Yes, of course you can. We’ll meet you two at the Dragon Pit. Just hurry!”

Shireen nods and turns the reigns on her poor, exhausted horse, urging it to give it its all once more. And it does, bravely so. Now, she doesn’t know the horse’s name, but when they finally ride up to the gate, Shireen vows that she’ll help keep this one alive throughout the winter.

Before they’re able to reach the courtyard, though, they come dangerously close to the Dothraki screamers, have to dodge several brawling wildlings and pass by a small group of very confused Northern guards who are desperately trying to keep the fighting out of the courtyard.

“Gendry! -” Shireen shouts, once they’ve passed under the archway. The forge isn’t far from here and she hopes and prays with every bone in her body that her cousin hasn’t…

“- Gendry!”

That he’s not off somewhere…

“Yeah?!” The answer comes from behind the forge, where she knows he stashes his newly made weapons.

Sure enough, when the two of them turn the corner, Gendry is there, already handing out weapons to the knights and the soldiers on their side.

“There’s a dragon!”

“There’s been a lot of those lately!” He replies, not looking up from his duty.

“No, I mean, Jon captured one. We need to…He talked about you, said that armour is made with chains.”

He raises his eyebrows, and then unceremoniously throws aside the spear he’d been holding.

“Which one did he capture?”

“Rheagal.” Missandei answers. Which is good, because Shireen has no idea how to tell one from the other. Especially not during a blizzard at night.

“Which one’s that? The big one or the little one?”

“The little one.” Her friend replies and Shireen silently wonders how one can call any of them ‘little’, but sure enough, the message comes across.

Gendry uses his fingers to let out a loud, intrusive whistle, before talking to the other men working at the smithy.

“Come on, boys! Get the wagons! Looks like we’ve earned ourselves a silver stag! -” He roars, leaving the men to work as one, before turning towards Shireen and Missandei again. “- Dragon Pit?”

“Dragon Pit.” Shireen confirms.

“Get a pair of fresh horses and ride ahead. Tell Jon we’ll bring it.”

She doesn’t know what he intends to bring, and she doesn’t really dare to ask, not when there are so many men scattered around her, preparing gods know what for gods know who. So instead, she lets Missandei steer her away and towards some horses who aren’t about to keel over and die.

There are men with them when they ride back. Not Northerners, not Knights of the Vale but Baratheon bannermen from House Musgood and House Esthermont. They keep both them safe through the rabble of Dothraki and lead them past the allies of Winterfell, already holding their enemies off.

She thinks she hears Arya’s voice shouting orders at one point, but cannot be sure. Furthermore, there’s no time to check.

All that matters now is the Dragon Pit, Jon and the dragon itself. Which, once they actually made it to the pit, Shireen is happy to find that it’s still there.

It’s not doing much though. Just sitting. Quietly. Unnervingly so. She hasn’t seen much of the monsters, but what she did see, is that they hardly ever just _sat still._ Oh, sure, they slept, but they’d be curled up and still growling sometimes too. And when they woke, they’d eat and they’d eat and they’d eat.

The dragon is not eating now.

Its white eyes are only staring blankly ahead and its impressive maw is doing nothing but drooling on the stone floor.

“Shireen!” There! Sansa and Brienne, standing on the other side of the pit.

It feels very unnatural to move directly in front of the giant rows of teeth, but again, the beast is brought to halt completely. They make it across to the others safe and sound.

“Did you find him?” She asks.

“Yes! He knew what to do. Jon…Jon must’ve left him instructions. He’s bringing men and wagons this way.”

“What about the Dothraki?” Brienne pipes up.

“Your men seem to know how to deal with them.” Missandei swallows hard, but croaks out the words all the same.

“How’s Jon?” It’s probably best to change the subject, at least for now.

“He’s still in there. I think. Keeping the dragon asleep, in a manner of speaking.” Sansa sighs and brushes a stray curl off his forehead.

The wait for Gendry probably isn’t long, even though it feels like they’re standing there forever, in the cold, watching Sansa tend to Jon. Shireen even finds herself shuffling as close to Missandei as possible, to preserve warmth but more so to comfort her from the harsh truth that is currently playing out in Winterfell. They don’t speak, but then again, they don’t really need to.

The pain of being abandoned and hurt is not unknown to Shireen. Not at all.

A creaking noise of wood and the clanking of iron shifting in place announces Gendry’s arrival. There are three wagons and more than two dozen men guarding them.

“Sorry it took so long. -” He hops off the seat at the front. “- Some of those fuckers outside the gates were trying to climb on and take our steel.”

“What happened?” Shireen tries to see if he’s got any injuries anywhere, but so far, it looks as though her cousin made it out alright.

“What happened is that we got to test the weapons we made at Winterfell. Which, by the way, they work well. Very well.”

“What is all of this?” Sansa interrupts, eyes skimming over the metal plates lying in the back.

“’S the armour. Lord Snow asked us to have it made after he saw what the Night King did to that third dragon.” He motions throwing a spear.

“You made an armour? For that _thing_?” Brienne’s eyes have gone wide.

“Yeah. For that one in particular, actually. The armour for the big one wasn’t really finished, so I’m glad we just got the little one.”

“Sorry, how does this help, exactly?” Sansa asks.

“You see those large iron rings mounted on the wall? They weren’t there before. We placed them while those scaly arseholes went out flying. Then we made some more rings on the armour. And then…we made these.” He’s walked over to the back of the wagon and is lifting out a truly impressive chain. Each link is about the size of Shireen’s leg, and as thick as it too.

“You mean to trap it.” There’s a sort of strange wonder in the Lady’s gaze.

“Well, King’s orders, right?” Gendry shrugs.

“Then, by all means, go ahead, I suppose.” She blinks twice and they all watch in amazement as Gendry instructs his fellow smiths to lift up the metal plates, before dragging them carefully towards the inert monster.

Rheagal, for his part, doesn’t move an inch. He demurely allows the men to link the plates on the armour around him. They move carefully to avoid wings and more importantly, his jaws, but they don’t seem at all concerned for their own safety otherwise, casually climbing on the back of the beast to adjust the metal at its spine.

Slowly, but certainly, the whole monster is encased, and once that work is done, they hammer the chains in place, rooting the dragon to the ground.

Eventually, they take the wagons to a spot that’s at quite a distance from the Pit. It’s only there, once they’re safely away, that Jon wakes up. Confused and in the back of one of the wagons, he looks at them one by one.

“I…did I? Did we just…?”

But before anyone can answer, Rhaegal roars as if he intends to burn down his entire lodging. Not that he can, though. With the way his neck is chained up now, he can only spew fire dead ahead, and nowhere near the rings that bind him.

“Yes. _You_ definitely did.” Sansa laughs, but there’s a watery note to it, as if she might be crying as well.

“Well, it was your idea. -” He gives her a lopsided grin. “- Where’s Arya?”

“Taming the chaos at Winterfell.” Brienne replies.

“Chaos?” Jon murmurs.

“Unfortunately. It seems our Dothraki ‘friends’ are no longer our Dothraki _friends._ ” Sansa huffs.

“Then we’d best go and see what we can do about that.” He struggles to sit upright and then orders the men around him to get moving again.

And on their way back, Shireen quietly wonders if this is what means to rule a kingdom, jumping from one terrifying, extraordinary situation to another without a moment of hesitation. She doesn’t know if she’d be able to do all that, were she ever to rule over her people like Jon does.

But perhaps, she thinks, she’d be able to try.

* * *

 

It’s a mess.

It’s all a horrendous mess.

Sansa can’t keep her eyes off it, but she scarcely wants to keep her eyes on it all the same. What was once the Dothraki camp is now not much more than trampled tents hiding the remains of a battlefield.

The battle seems to have passed, though, and the only people that remain are the bannermen and their allies, as well as the Free Folk, scurrying through the mess that’s been left behind. In the distance, Sansa can vaguely see the lights and the outline of the wildling camp. Still standing, but perhaps not completely untouched by the mayhem.

A hand squeezes hers, and she turns her gaze towards Jon.

“They’re still here.” The warmth of his body radiates against hers where their sides are touching.

“So are we. -” She replies, and although that doesn’t even come close to conveying the fear, the gratitude and the pride she’s currently feeling, Sansa thinks that he understands it all the same. “- How are you feeling?”

“Alright, I suppose. Would be better if I could get off this accursed wood.” The wagon hobbles, giving Jon’s words their meaning for what feels like the hundredth time already.

“I’ll agree to that.” It feels wrong to smile, but still, Sansa allows her lips to turn upwards.

“It was weird, though, being in there. Inside of it. Not like Ghost at all.” He hums, staring out into the darkness.

“No?”

“With Ghost, it’s…natural. I think. He allows it to happen. We’re both in there but we understand each other, I suppose.”

“But not with the dragon?”

“It struggled so much, holding onto it was like trying to tie down a canvas in the storm. There was so much rage and violence and…” The sentence tapers off there.

“Well, to be fair, we did steal it from its family.” And Sansa acutely remembers what that feels like.

“That’s the thing though. I’d have understood that. But the dragon, Rhaegal, he doesn’t…care about that. Hasn’t in a long while, I think. He’s just _angry_ now. He wants revenge. For his brother. For whatever it is he suffered through.”

“Do you know what it was? What it’s been through?”

“It’s ah, I can’t explain it clearly. Just, there’s darkness and chains and caverns. That’s all I know.” He rakes his hand through his hair.

“You think it doesn’t long for Daenerys? for its brother?” That does feel hard to understand.

“Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t. Rhaegal doesn’t just want the Night King or us to suffer. He wants her and his older brother to suffer as well.” There’s a note of anger in his voice, as if he can’t quite shake what he’s seen.

“So, why did it go with them in the first place?”

“He’s afraid. Knows what his brother is capable of if he doesn’t stay in line. There was an equality between him and the third one, but they both deferred to Drogon. Had to, or risk the violence instead.”

“Gods…” Sansa murmurs and squeezes his hand again

Not even Joffrey had had the gal to hurt his siblings.

Certainly, Sansa can hardly imagine it, assaulting Arya or Bran because they’d refuse to do as she said? That wouldn’t do, for one because Arya would probably win that match, but the very idea of it…

It’s absurd.

It’s twisted.

Never in her life had she thought she’d feel for the monster hiding in that Pit, but now, she reluctantly pities it. To make matters even more complex, she learned that it mourns for its brother, just like Sansa does for Rickon and Robb.

“Arya!” Jon shouts, calling their little sister closer from where she is still riding near the gates.

“Are you alright?” She smiles and reaches over from her horse to grab Jon’s forearm, shaking it in that way knights sometimes do.

“Getting there. Casualties?” He nods over to the destroyed camp.

“On our side? Four Free Folk men and two of their women. Died in the struggle. None taken, though.”

“And on theirs?” Jon asks, but Sansa’s already mentally tallying it up. If there were only six deaths on their end, then all the bodies they passed…

“Dozens, if not more. The rest of them fled into the night with nothing but the clothes on their back. With the way the weather’s been, I’ll be surprised if even half of them survive ‘till morning.” There’s a dark sort of pride on Arya’s face, and Sansa has to reckon once more with the fact that they’ve clearly led very different lives in the years they were apart.

“We gave them those clothes. The furs and cloaks they were wearing were from Winterfell.” Sansa sighs. They should’ve saved those for the smallfolk.

“What about the dragon?” Arya asks.

“Tied down and taken care of!” Gendry shouts out from his place at the front of the wagon.

“Hah, so that’s where you’ve been hiding all this time!” Arya’s expression morphs to a wide smile and she speeds up her horse to ride next to him. Reaching out and raking her hand over the short fuzz of hair on his head.

 “Weren’t hiding from nothing. I stood on the back of a living dragon, bet you can’t say you ever have.” He matches her enthusiasm in spades and they go on to bicker endlessly. Sansa’s not sure about what, since she’s not listening anymore. Because it seems intrusive, but also, because there are more pressing matters to attend to.

That much becomes clear when they finally pass through the Southern Gate.

The Bannermen, the Free Folk, The Baratheon troops and the Knights of the Vale have all gathered in the courtyard. They’ve clearly all been fighting the Dothraki and for the first time, look as though they belong together, as one army.

_We’ve survived our trial by fire._

_Now, let’s hope that we survive the one by ice too._

On the other end of the yard, though, the unsullied have gathered. And apart from Lord Tyrion and Ser Jorah, are joined by _none_ of the Westerosi allies.

They haven’t quite _drawn_ their weapons yet, but they’ve got the spears in their hands and look about an inch away from using them too. And if the allies continue jeer and challenge them, Sansa has no doubt that it’ll end in a bloodbath.

But before either she or Jon can intervene, there is another who steps up to keep the peace.

“I surrender to the King in the North and accept my place as his prisoner.” Ser Jorah proclaims to the entirety of the crowd.

Then, he steps forward into the gap between the two armies. His sword is thrown on the ground and he lowers himself onto his knees, completely at the mercy of the men before him.

For one breathless moment, the crowd stills and no-one seems to be able to come up with a proper response to _that_ grand gesture. However, the first to recover is the one person they always expect to speak up first.

“Let me through, -” A shrill voice comes from inbetween the Bannermen. “- Let me pass, you big oafs! I _can’t see anything!_ ”

After a bit of shoving and grumbling, Lady Lyanna Mormont pushes her way out of the crowd. She demonstratively marches up to Ser Jorah and wastes no time in telling him exactly how she feels about his surrender.

“Get up, you dolt! -” She tugs at his upper arm, dragging him back on his feet as much as her tiny body can. “- You’re not anyone’s prisoner! You’re a _Mormont of Bear Island_ and your place is here. Alongside your people.”

“But I…my loyalty…I love…”He splutters.

“Shut it! Some things are more important than _love_. Whether we like it or not, you are one of us.”

And that? That is the moment when Jon becomes the King in the North again. He lets go of Sansa’s hand, stumbles up and out of the wagon, drawing the attention of the entire courtyard.

Sansa, meanwhile, quickly tries to follow. Getting off the back of and helping Shireen and Missandei to do the same.

The rest of them, though, are waiting with abated breath as to how their king will judge the scene before them.

“She’s right! -” Jon bellows. “- He is one of us. In fact, everyone who is here, everyone who doesn’t flee from the army of the dead is a part of this _._ I don’t care who you’ve served before, or what kingdom you’re from, if you want to stay here and fight the Others, then we will accept you as one us until the very end!”

There are shouts of joy from the allies and a look of incredible relief on Ser Jorah’s face, but the rest of their guests still seem unsure.

“So, what it’s going to be? Are you going to stay with us or go with them?!” Lady Mormont addresses the Unsullied and points at the remains of the Dothraki camp.

Tyrion nods and quietly passes over to join the Knights of the Vale. The Unsullied, though, they are still as silent as the grave.

“I will stay.” A voice pipes up from beside Sansa.

_Missandei._

“I will stay here. -” She repeats a little louder, looking at a very happy Shireen while she does it. “- I do not believe I can fight very well, but I will do my part as best as I can.”

“And that is more than enough to make you one of us.” Sansa smiles at her, unable to keep in the words much longer.

“Then I will stay too.” An Unsullied man steps forward, taking his helmet off and staring at Missandei with a look of longing on his face.

“So will I.” Another one says, taking off his helmet as well.

“So will this one.” A third goes, doing the same.

And after that, they all follow. One by one, taking off their helmets, pledging their place at Winterfell. Some in the common tongue, some in Valyrian, but they are doing it all the same: Showing the North that there are human beings living within this seemingly impenetrable wall of soldiers.

When they’re all done, when all the helmets have been removed, Jon steps towards the first one of them and holds out his hand.

The Unsullied takes it without a moment of hesitation and in return, Jon gives him a wide and true grin.

“Then Winterfell welcomes you home.” He tells them.

“King in the North!” Lord Umber yells, and soon enough, there’s a whole chorus of men and women joining in. Shouting at the top of their lungs who it is that they swear fealty to.

And from the corner of her eyes, Sansa even catches Missandei whispering the words along with them.

Yes, the army of the dead may still be coming, but for the first time, Sansa thinks the army of the living will be ready for them.


	19. A Careful Awakening

Shireen is glad to say that peace has returned to Winterfell. Or rather, what constitutes as peace in these trying times. After all, there's still a war looming on the horizon and therefore plenty of matters to prepare for and deal with.

But thankfully, it doesn't involve rushing out into the stormy nights on horseback anymore. No, it's back to the long wait instead. Sitting by the fire, watching over Bran and the pups. Not all of them, Shella and Rowan are with Arya right now, she's not sure where. Bael and Symeon, meanwhile, are sitting with Samwell in the corner of Bran's chamber, lovingly enjoying the attention he dotes upon them. Symeon does so quietly, but Bael is, as per usual, yowling with joy.

“Alright then. Alright then. It’s all good innit, brother Bael?” Sam laughs as Bael nips at his fingers. He’s come up with this new nickname because the pup’s fur is completely black, making him, according to Sam, an honorary member of the Night’s Watch.

Jonquil, who’s snuggled up with Florys on Shireen’s lap, is trying to look dignified in the face of her brother’s wild demeanour, but she can tell that the pup isn’t wholly comfortable here, clearly preferring the company of the Lady of Winterfell. Shireen might consider putting her next to Florian, by Bran’s side, but doubts that it will make her feel much better.

“How long do you think they’ll need before they can go outside?” She asks, letting her fingers outline the shape of Florys’s ears.

“Oh, tough question. If it were summer, I’d probably have put them outside already, but as is stands, we might want to wait a little while longer.” There are dark circles under his eyes and Shireen knows that behind his cheerful façade, he’s still mourning his family.

After all, so is she.

“This is fine too, I guess.” She kisses the top of Florys’s head first and then does the same for Jonquil.

“Ah, shite. -” Samwell very carefully lifts Bael from his lap. “- He pissed on me.”

“Maybe not quite fine then.” She deadpans, watching as Sam puts both Bael and Symeon next to Bran.

“I’m going to go and…yeah.” He grumbles and leaves the chambers like that, attempting to wipe off the stain but only making it worse in the process.

“I suppose it’s just us now.” Shireen murmurs, gently petting the pups on her lap and watching as their ears perk up when there’s a yelp coming from behind them.

“Bael…not again.” Shireen sighs, and moves to put his sisters on the bed so she can see what the fuss is about _this time._

But when she finally gets to his side, he is, for once, quietly chewing on the bedspread. So, it’s not him. But then, if it isn’t, it has to be one of the other pups. It isn’t Symeon, he’s fast asleep. It’s not Florys and Jonquil either, they were just fine a moment ago.

Which leaves…

Another peep comes from the other side of the bed.

_Florian._

Which is odd, because he’s not normally very expressive like that. He yelps again and Shireen has to dig through the blankets before she can find him and spot the problem.

There’s a hand, lying on top of his head. It’s too heavy and too big for the small direwolf that he is and he can’t seem to get out from under it.

“How, in the name of the Seven, did you get yourself tangled up like that?” She asks him and picks up Bran’s hand to pry the little pup out from under it.

Florian, unsurprisingly, doesn’t answer her question.

But something else sure does.

Because while the pup is squirming vigorously in one of her hands, there’s movement in the other one.

Which is…

That’s not supposed to happen. Or rather, it’s really very much supposed to happen, but it hasn’t happened in a little while.

With a shock, she drops an indignant Florian back on the blanket, while her eyes are immediately fixed on the lifeless form in the bed.

“Bran?” She asks.

His fingers don’t move again, but there’s a noise now, one that isn’t the crackling of the fire or the wailing of the pups.

He’s _talking._

She can’t hear what he’s saying. It’s a slurred murmur at best, but it’s most definitely _his voice._

“What is it?” She moves towards the head of the bed, trying to make out the words. His eyes are still closed, but his lips are still moving. Still speaking to _someone._

In the end, all she does catch is the last part of his sentence. The last bit of whoever it is he’s talking to.

“- I think it’s time for Bran to wake up now.” He mutters.

There’s a deep breath.

And two brown eyes are staring up at Shireen.

“Bran!” She tries not to shout, but fails rather miserably at it.

“Hello?” he replies, sounding groggy, befuddled and not at all like the stoic boy she’d come to know.

“Hello.”

“Where am I?” He’s looking around, wide-eyed and blinking against the light of the fire.

“You’re in Winterfell?” Shireen tries, because he seems different. The cadence of his voice, the way he looks at her, at everything surrounding him. It’s not the same.

“I know you, don’t I?” Bran studies her, wincing when he tries to move the wrist that’s in a splint.

“I’m not sure, actually.” Because she’s got no clue who just woke up.

“What’s your name?”

“It’s Shireen. Shireen Baratheon.” She swallows down her worries and fears.

“I think I knew that. You look ill but you’re not. You’re cured.”

As unlikely as it seems, that brings a smile on her face. He seems to remember something, at the very least. In the meantime, Jonquil, the oldest of the pups, carefully comes up to sniff at this new boy in a familiar body.

“Summer?! –” He clumsily tries to pick her up as an expression of shock glides across his face. “- Oh Gods, what year is it?”

“No, don’t worry. That’s not…you haven’t gone back in time or anything. She’s not Summer.” Shireen splutters.

Emboldened by his big sister’s courage, Florian comes up to take a look at what the fuss is all about. He’s, of course, followed by Florys and Bael. Symeon is still lying back, but his ears are perked up to follow the commotion the best way he can.

“Where did all of these come from?” There’s a real, genuine smile on his face. One she’s never seen before.

“Your sister’s wolf. Arya’s.” She clarifies.

“Arya…she’s here, isn’t she? She’s finally home?” He breathes out.

“Yes. Yes, she is. –” Which brings Shireen to what is probably the most important thing. “- I should go and get her. And Jon. And Sansa. They’ll all want to see you.”

“I’d like to see them too.” Bran replies, tapping the tip of his index finger against Florian’s nose.

“That…you should. Yes! I will go and get them then. I’ll go and get them now. You...You just don’t go anywhere, alright?”

He raises an eyebrow and looks at the bed, as if to say ‘how in the Seven Hells am I going to go anywhere?’.

“I meant in your mind. In the past. I meant…just…stay awake, yeah?”

“Yeah, alright.” She hears him guffaw when she’s already halfway out of the door and it’s just such an unusual sound that she finds herself turning right again around to stare at him.

He blinks and looks back at her, shoulders relaxed, at least four pups climbing up and over him, and a slight curve upwards on his lips.

Without warning, Shireen can feel her cheeks go warm.

“Right. Going now!”

The Bran that woke up is not the Bran that left them during Varys’s trial, but it is most certainly _a_ Bran and not a bad one either, she thinks.

* * *

 

The first time Sansa had embraced her younger brother to welcome him back, it’d been an uncomfortable and strange affair.

Bran had been distant; the hug had been a misshapen gesture of something he must’ve _thought_ human beings did. It’d left Sansa feeling empty and distraught.

The second time Sansa embraces her youngest brother to welcome him back is nothing like that at all. His arms are holding her tight and he seems as emotionally afflicted by the situation as she is. It’s _human._ It’s _Bran,_ the boy she remembers. He’s little different, as they all are now, but this is unmistakably her brother. A Stark.

“Sansa, -” He anguishes. “- I’m so, so sorry, Sansa.”

“Don’t be. You don’t have to be. What would you be sorry about?”

“About what I said…or what I think I said? About Rickon. I was supposed to look after him and I…”

“You saw what happened to Rickon?” She sits back on the bed, With Jon behind her and Arya on the other side. They’d gotten into the chambers before she had. Had been the second and third to welcome Bran back with them. Shireen, for obvious reasons, had been the first

“No. I don’t…maybe? I remember that we spoke of it, but that I already knew what happened and I…? It’s all a bit of a mess.” He breathes, laying back against the pillows.

“Just take your time. -” Jon tells him. “- Start with the bits that make sense and then try to work your way up from there.”

“The last thing that makes sense is going north. Far north. To the heart tree and the Children and the Three Eyed Raven.” His unharmed hand surreptitiously makes its way towards Jonquil. He must be thinking of poor Summer. The wolf who died there, saving him from the wights.

“And the rest?” Arya asks, putting Shella down alongside Rowan and the rest of the pups.

“The rest is jumbled up, like a ball of yarn that the cat’s been playing with.” He sounds exhausted.

“So, you don’t remember who did this?” she points at his wrist.

“Not a clue. All I know is that it hurts quite a lot.” He keeps his arm close to his chest, away from the unpredictable and excited pups.

“That’s alright. Don’t try to strain yourself over it. I’d say you’ve done quite enough of that in the last year.” Sansa smiles, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“I just. -” Jon starts, carefully pushing Bael away from the edge of the bed. “- Without trying to needlessly frighten you or pressure you, are you aware of the danger we’ll be facing soon?”

“The Night King.” Bran answers quickly and without hesitation.

“Yes. That. We’re doing everything we can to stop him, however the next few weeks are…”

“Not going to be easy. But what else is new, right?” He smiles at that and Sansa can see that the boy from before is still there; that happy, unconcerned child who would fearlessly scale the walls of Winterfell. 

“Well, _this_ is definitely new!” Arya holds up Rowan and sways her about. Now, Sansa knows that from just about any of the other pups, it’d earn them a vocal complaint at least, but Rowan’s not like that. She actually enjoys the attention that comes with being manhandled.

“Yes! Gimme!” Bran laughs and then promptly reconsiders his position. “- Ow, ouch, my ribs. No, that’s not going to work.”

He lays back again, but eagerly watches as Arya explains him all about the seven pups and their quirks. It is at that point that Sansa’s heart is quiet and content enough that she can consider what Bran’s awakening might mean for the rest of Winterfell, what they’re supposed to do now.

She gets up from the bed, rakes her fingers through Bran’s unruly hair and gives Jon a nod to motion him to follow.

“We’re going to go see our new guest.” She tells Arya.

“Do you need me to…?” Her sister looks up from the pups and Bran.

“No, it’s fine. Stay here. Take it easy for a spell. We’ll handle this one.” Sansa thinks of how it used to be, and remembers that Arya and Bran were always particularly close to one another. Perhaps because they’re near in age. Or maybe just because their personalities mesh well.

Whatever the case, it’ll be good for either of them to have a moment of respite. Perhaps now that Bran is back to being _Bran_ again, Arya will become closer to the endlessly cheerful girl she once was.

When they’re out on the hallway, though, Sansa wills herself to look at the other side of things. And Jon, apparently, has done exactly the same.

“So, Bran’s alive. He’s going to recover and he has no memory of what might’ve happened.” He starts.

“Yes. It would seem that way.”

“What does that mean for our Lannister prisoner?”

“That we have nothing but a lot of coincidences tying him to Bran’s injuries. -” Sansa muses. “- It isn’t like it was with Varys. We haven’t caught anyone in any act.”

“Would’ve been a mite simpler if we had.” Jon snorts.

“It certainly would’ve been.” She concedes.

“Which leaves us with the question; Do we really believe that the Lannisters are capable of swaying unseen forces to do their bidding?”

It’s a matter that’s been plaguing Sansa’s mind for quite a while now. And it doesn’t make a lot of sense either, because if Cersei had suddenly acquired magic, one would expect that she’d kill Tyrion first. Or perhaps Sansa.

But not _Bran,_ who she only saw a handful of times years ago. Who has been about as far from King’s Landing as physically possible while everyone else was scheming and attacking her. Furthermore, if she’d wanted to hurt Bran, why implicate her beloved brother in the act? Why not just do it sooner, or rather later, to avoid rousing suspicion on his behalf.

“There is another possibility. -” Sansa offers up. Because it’s a thought that’s crossed her mind as well. “- What if it’s not Ser Jaime’s intent or Lannister magic? What if the one who hurt Bran is only Bran himself? What if he was merely reaching back to the trauma he endured? Perhaps he simply touched upon a memory he could not contain. Something hidden so deep inside of him that it…brought him back to the beginning.”

“Brought him back?” Jon asks, holding open the door that leads to the dungeons.

“You saw what he was like in there. He wasn’t like that before. It’s as if the old Bran has returned and the Three Eyed Raven is gone.” She ducks underneath the small archway.

“Which is a personal gain for us, sure, but it could be a strategic disadvantage in the long run. If someone had meant to hurt our ability to ascertain knowledge, this would be a good way to do so.” Jon continues.

“If _that_ was their only ambition, then I will happily thank them for it. -” She huffs. “- What we’ve gained from the Three Eyed Raven can be weighed equally against the instability his advice brought us.”

She remembers all to well what the knowledge of Jon’s heritage had done to them. The torrent of fear and uncertainty it’d brought. She doesn’t dare to wager what would’ve been different if he hadn’t told them, but she’s not ready to chalk it up as an advantage in any shape or form yet.

“That may be so, but it would certainly be good to know where Daenerys has gone too. What’s happening in King’s Landing as we speak.” Jon shoots back.

“How long do you think it would take for us to unravel his riddles? Would it truly be faster than sending a raven and waiting for it to return?” Sansa counters.

“I suppose we’ll never find out now. In the meantime, though, we still haven’t decided what to do about Jaime Lannister.” He pauses at the final door they’re meant to go through. The entrance to the dungeons. If they pass through this one, the infamous Kingslayer will hear them. Will know what they’re discussing.

“He fought a war against Robb.” She tries.

“Everyone’s fought a war against everyone.” Jon replies, and that’s probably true enough either way.

“So, what does it come down to, then? What we choose to believe about him?” Sansa’s not exactly in favour of this plan, but it wouldn’t be the first time they’ve had to take scoundrels on their word.

“Let’s start by listening what he has to say for himself.” He opens the door and leads her to the cell where they’re keeping Ser Jaime. Brienne is standing watch in front of it, alongside three other guards and it seems their prisoner has done quite well for himself. Extra furs have been added to the bed and the floor. The hearth that’s closest to the cell is roaring with a large fire and the man himself looks no worse for wear.

On the whole, it’s a not a bad habit to take good care of one’s political prisoners, but something tells Sansa that Brienne’s responsible for this particular act of goodwill, and that there were very few ethical motives behind the move.

“We took the furs from the Dothraki camp.” Brienne tells them before Sansa even has the chance to say anything about it.

“I’m glad to see they’re being put to good use.” She raises an eyebrow, but decides to let it go otherwise. Love can do strange things to a person and Sansa has not missed the glances her Lady Knight has been sharing with their prisoner.

Having said that, he’s still behind bars which that tells her enough about where Brienne’s loyalties ultimately lie.

“Lady Stark, -” Ser Jaime gets up from his small cot and moves to lean against the entrance of his cell. “- And…what is it now? Lord Snow? King Snow? King Stark?”

“Jon Snow’s fine for now.” He grumbles.

“Ser Jaime, we thought we’d come to see if you might be interested to talk.” Sansa offers.

“Dying to, actually. You have no idea how dull it is down here.” He smirks.

“Then by all means, why don’t you start telling us why you came here in the first place.” Jon again.

“I came here to honour the promise we made.” Jaime shrugs.

“The promise your sister made. To pledge an _army_ to us _._ ” Sansa deadpans.

“Well, I’ve been called a great swordsman before, but to compare me to an entire army might be a bit much. Even for me.” The man seems to find himself very entertaining.

“All jests aside, you must know how this looks, right?” Jon gives him a dour stare.

“Unfortunately, I do. -” Something like weariness creeps into his eyes. “- but I’m also noticing you’ve brought a red-haired queen with you, rather than a silver-haired one. Trouble in paradise?”

 _A queen?_ Sansa thinks. _Is he trying to flatter me?_

“Why don’t you tell me what you know about Bran instead?” Jon asks with a dangerous note in his voice.

“Bran? What? Bran Stark? The second son of Ned Stark. Or the third, depending on your definition.” Ser Jaime seems perplexed.

“The second.” Jon snaps.

“Right you are, the _second._ Either way, it’s been a while since I’ve last seen the lad.”

“Would that be before or after you threw him off a tower?” Sansa glares at him.

“Am I meant to deny that I did? Most of Westeros knows what happened by now. Seven Hells, I believe we waged a war over it.” he runs his hand over his bearded chin.

“And would you do so again? If given the chance?” She tries to cool the rage that’s brewing in her throat.  

“Decidedly not.”

“Why not?” Jon asks.

“Because one, contrary to what you may believe, I don’t actually enjoy hurting people. And two, because the act itself utterly failed to accomplish what I’d hoped it would. The truth came out anyway and throwing the boy off that accursed tower kept neither my sister nor my children safe. Also, I probably, in some roundabout way, lost my hand for it, so there’s that.” He seems to have given this a lot of thought.

Or at least a lot more than Sansa would’ve given him credit for.

She stares at Jon and sees the same reluctant belief reflected in his own eyes. Unfortunately, it appears that this man is not the villain they were looking for.

Is he despicable? Most likely.

Is he a monster? No. Sadly not.

She’d seen him in King’s Landing, ever so briefly, before Littefinger had arranged her escape. The most memorable moment of that time was at Joffrey’s wedding. When the poison had begun to take root, when Joffrey had started choking, Ser Jaime had been the first to be by his side. Had sprinted past everyone else to care for his son in his final seconds.

Whatever else he may be, when the man says that he’d have committed murder to protect his family, she believes him.

“Alright, -” Jon nods. “- Tell me then, if we were to release you right here and right now, what would you do?”

“Well, I’d do what I came here to do. Which is to say, kill the dead until they stay dead.” The tone of his voice suggests that Ser Jaime thinks that this should be obvious by now.

“So you wouldn’t leave? You’d stay here?”

“If all the Lords and Ladies Stark would permit me too, yes. I could go to the Wall too, if you’d rather have me there.” He holds out both his hands, the functioning one and the gaudy, gold one.

Jon merely glares once more and then abruptly turns on his heel, stalking out of the dungeon without a word.

Sansa tries to pretend she knows what this is all about and calmly follows him, slipping out, and closing the door behind her.

“What was that?” She asks Jon.

“Shite.” Is the only answer she gets.

“What?”

“I _knew_ that would come back to bite me in the arse!” He slams a hand against the wall.

“What would?” She doesn’t quite appreciate being left in the dark like this.

“My grand gesture to our Unsullied friends. It’s not…I didn’t think. _I should’ve thought it through._ ”

And, oh! _That’s_ what this is about.

“I don’t care who you’ve served before, or what kingdom you’re from, if you want to stay here and fight the Others, then we will accept you as one us until the very end?” Sansa breathes.

Jon gives her a sweeping motion with his arm in return.

“Yes. That’s rather unfortunate.” She agrees.

“If I keep him in a cage now, I’ll look like a bloody hypocrite.”

“And the last thing we need is doubt sown amongst the armies.” Sansa hums.

“So…” Jon mutters.

“So…” She repeats.

“We’re not going to give up an entire army to keep one potential murderer locked up.” He eventually concedes.

“I’ll go and inform Arya and Bran, then.” She sighs.

All things put together, Sansa supposes that allowing Ser Jaime to join their fight is most likely the right decision. Even if it feels like a horrible idea and the thought of what he’s done still makes her stomach turn. She can already hear her sister’s voice shouting in her head, can imagine the look on poor Bran’s face.

Gods above, there are times when she’s glad to be back and in charge of Winterfell and then…Then there are times like this.


	20. A Coming Storm

“See, and that was sort of our secret way of talking about it. -” Gendry tells her, fiddling with the silver coin in his hand. “- The big one, Drogon, he was the gold dragon and then the second one, Rhaegal, was the silver stag and the third, the dead one, we’d call him the copper star.”

“But wasn’t it obvious that when you talked about the gold dragon, you’d be talking about the real dragon instead?” Shireen asks him and tries to snag the coin.

“Hah, no! Lord Snow would ask ‘oh, well how’s my armour coming along?’ and I’d say ‘Which armour, my lord?’ and he’d be like ‘The one I paid for in gold dragons’ and no-one would be any the wiser.” He laughs and holds up the coin so high that Shireen can’t reach it from where she’s sitting.

“That’s actually pretty clever.”

“Right?”

They’re sat on the steps of the forge, because while there’s still plenty of weapons to be crafted, Gendry has been in there for so long already. Normally, he’d work from dawn until dusk, but the sun has stopped rising altogether, so he merely goes in and works hours at a time, only to stop at random intervals to eat, sleep or for example, have chat with Shireen.

Out in the yard, Arya is testing her new sword. Or rather, it’s not exactly new, it looks and swings exactly the same way as Needle used to. The only difference is the blade on it.

That one, Gendry proudly announced, is now made of Valyrian Steel. Quite possibly the smallest Valyrian sword in Westeros and Essos, but deadly effective all the same.

She's currently testing out its new strength with Grey Worm, who is the only one nimble enough to keep up with the steps of a water dancer such as Arya.

It's quite a friendly match, with both parties grinning and debating which way of dodging or striking is better than the other. Shireen hadn't expected it, but the departure of the Dragon Queen and her Dothraki had caused a very noticeable change in the Unsullied.

Oh, they're still stern, unyielding and they still move as one more often than not, but they've doubled their efforts to move with the other armies, instead of separate from them. Furthermore, Shireen has heard from Ser Davos that Grey Worm has been taking his requests and suggestions to Jon directly, rather than to Daenerys or Tyrion.

And as it turns out, the Unsullied have actually quite a lot of ideas between them.

Some are easy to carry out, others need a bit of an adjustment and some are not going to work out in the north. Overall, though, they've definitely gained an advantage now that there's an understanding between the different armies.

Lord Tyrion, for his part, seems to be quiet and wholly occupied with someone else. Namely, his brother. the two of them have scarcely been apart since Jon and Sansa let Ser Jaime walk free. She can see him now in the torchlight, sitting at the other end of the yard, watching his brother and Lady Brienne from a distance, they’re sparring as well.

“Oh! Before I forget! -” Gendry pipes up. “- Remember the rest of that ugly Valyrian dagger?”

“Yeah, of course. What did you end up doing with it?”

“Well, Arya obviously didn’t want it and as it turns out, people are not exactly buying precious metal right now. I think the thing would’ve been worth more if it been its weight in grain instead of gold.” He harrumphs.

“I can see that.” Shireen agrees.

“So, instead, I figured, if we are going to be leading the Baratheon House, we should maybe look the part. At least a bit.” He starts digging around in one of his pockets and what he ends up fishing out from it astounds her.

There, in the palm of his hand, is a golden necklace. Ever so delicate, made to resemble several sets of antlers all neatly weaved together. On three central points in the middle are big teardrop shaped black stones.

“Did you make this?!” she very carefully lets one of her fingers glide over the finer details.

“I had help, to be fair. I got a guy to cut and polish the stones and one of the men in the forge knows a thing or two about goldsmithing, so he gave me some advice, but other than that, yeah.”

“What are they?” She taps on one of the stones.

“Oh, nothing expensive or anything, it’s just that there’s quite a bit of leftover dragonglass, you see, stuff that gets taken off from daggers and spearpoints and so on.”

“This is dragonglass? That is so amazing!” Shireen giggles.

“I mean, I figured it’d be good way to remember the war if we survive it. You’re not a warrior, so you don’t have the weapons, but you’re here and you’re living through it all the same. That is, if you even want it -”

“I’m never taking it off again. -” She scrambles to put it on her neck, only realizing halfway through that there’s something missing. “- Wait. I shouldn’t be the only one to have this! You’re a Baratheon too, you should have something as well.”

Shireen’s not going to wear this if Gendry can’t have something to show his heraldry. He doesn’t have to hide who he is anymore, the only person who cares has flown off on her monster to Gods know where.

“Don’t worry! I didn’t put all the gold in that little thing.” He pulls out another object from his pocket. Gold as well. A ring with the same antler shapes and a round, black stone sitting on top of it.

“Yes, that’s beautiful.” She breathes.

“Made one for Ser Davos too. It’s less antler and more waves, but the same materials. I figured with all that he’s done for us, he’s just as much a part of this too.”

“Show me! Show me!”

“Alright, calm down.” He shows her the third ring, and it is as promised; more waves, less antlers and instead of one large stone, this one has a circle of little ones set as a band in the middle of the ring.

“When are you going to give it to him?” Shireen asks, because she wants to be there for sure.

“Haven’t decided yet. Before the dead get here in any case.”

A loud clang on the yard distracts them. Grey Worm has finally tripped up after being tackled by Arya. They’d been dancing around one another for so long that it’d had to come to this eventually. It was just a matter of who would go first.

Still, there’s no bad blood apparently, because Arya eagerly helps him back on his feet and both the Northerners and the Unsullied that are watching have begun clapping their appreciation of the match.

It’s good, this newfound comradery between them. Even Grey Worm, who she’d only known by his stern look and Missandei’s tales before, seems to be coming into his own. He’s leading his men, not following someone else. By now, she knows a lot more about the Unsullied than she did when she first opened _The History of Meerenese Silk,_ and it really does seem like they’ve finally been released of the scourge when its last owner had left them.

And while Arya and Grey Worm depart the field, two new contenders step up to it. Ser Jorah and Lady Lyanna Mormont, a well-known pair in sparring matches by now. But today, just like everything else, it’s different. Less hostile.

It’s as if both of them suddenly have realized how much they belong together. That they _are_ family and that at the end of it all, a great many things can be spoken about and forgiven. That said, Shireen doesn’t need to see this to know where it’s going. Ser Jorah, despite his age, is still a far superior swordsman than Lyanna, but he won’t win the match, simply because he can’t find it in himself to beat her.

It’s good training, sure, but not all that exciting to watch.

Besides, Shireen has much more important matters on her mind.

“I’ve got to show this to Bran!” She remembers. Because Bran isn’t quite ready to sit up for long stretches of time what with his ribs, can’t stay in his chair and is therefore confined to his chambers instead.

She has no idea whether he’s the kind of person who enjoys the details of finer craftsmanship, but still, now that he’s awake and with them again, he should know everything he can’t see through the three eyes of the raven anymore.

* * *

 

The world has frozen over and the sun has seemingly abandoned them completely. That alone would be enough to drive fear in her heart, but knowing what lurks right outside their gates…

It haunts Sansa.

Keeps her up at night.

It also has her vigorously clinging to what little comfort she may be able to find; Arya laughing in the courtyard, endless meandering discussions with Bran, Jon smiling over a cup of ale, Brienne guiding her and keeping her safe, Shireen with Gilly and Missandei while they work on their sewing, Samwell leafing through his books.

She’s even selfishly started carrying Jonquil around with her whenever she can. A reminder of how life used to be, of how she used to drag a young Lady with her around in Winterfell. And with the soft fur against her cheek and a little wet nose bumping up against her ear, Sansa finds herself thinking of her mother.

Of how much she misses her; the warmth, the safety and the love of her.

However, there’s also a part that resents her. Thoughts that feel like tears on her cheeks, like the sting of loneliness, because how dare she leave them alone in this cruel, unyielding and cold world? How dare she abandon them like that? How dare she put the responsibility of caring for her brothers and sisters all on Sansa?

_Wait…_

_Sisters?_

_I only have one sister…_

Her eyes drift towards the pup in her arms.

“Oh, you poor, dear thing. Don’t worry, we’ll look after you. All of you.” She kisses Jonquil’s soft head and marvels over this connection between them. How steadfastly it’s growing already.

It makes Sansa wonder if the bond between her and Lady had been this strong too. If she’d missed the clues to it as a tender thirteen-year-old girl. Because honestly, how could she have known? The world had been normal then, not filled with White Walkers and Dragons and Awakened Gods.

It won’t be long now, she reckons, before the wolf dreams will start in earnest. Before she’ll see what Jonquil sees. Perhaps the dreams that lead her just beyond, towards some place behind a great untouchable veil, will disappear then.

Will finally sever her last remaining link to Lady.

She hopes it doesn’t.

But that’s neither here nor there now. She needs to talk to Jon. Because while there might be a significant difference between having to feed to _two_ dragons and having to feed _one_ , that’s still a lot of meat going down the belly of the hungry beast. Moreover, the whole of Winterfell is rationing now, so why shouldn’t the dragon? After all, there’s very little chance of it eating their smallfolk when they’ve got it tied down like it is.

The biting cold greets them when she slips past the large doors of the Great Hall and she immediately wraps Jonquil in the cloak, keeping them both warm.

And damn this endless night, because where she’d normally be able to spot Jon in an instant, she now has to search for a black cloak against the darkness.  She finds him when she finds Brienne, who will thankfully always be a beacon of golden hair wherever she goes and no matter what she wears.

“My Lady.” She greets and Sansa smiles back at her.

“Lady Stark.” Her companion does the same, but she doesn’t feel the need to smile quite as broadly at him. They may have agreed to let Jaime Lannister go, they may have even deemed him an ally, but there is still something deeply disturbing about having Cersei’s twin here with them.

“A good day to you. -” She suppresses the need to curtsey. “- Jon, might I have a word. About the dragon. We really can’t keep feeding him like we have been. Perhaps if we’d lived further down south, but as it stands…”

“So let the damn thing starve.” Jaime Lannister blurts out. It sounds less as if he is mocking her and more as though he actually fears Rhaegal.

“We need him. Now and when we face Daenerys again. And when we do, we have to have his loyalty. Starving him is not a disaster I’m looking to court.” Jon firmly disagrees.

And it makes a horrifying amount of sense if Sansa is honest with herself. They stole that dragon and they need to keep that dragon alive if they want to live too.

However, there is a flip side to this.

“Our people need to eat, though. The meat will keep them strong, if we give it to him, we’re weakening our armies, our craftsmen, our hunters.” 

“I understand that, but -” Jon starts.

He doesn’t get the chance to finish.

“What about the Dothraki who died in the attack the other night. Did you burn them?” It’s ser Jaime again, speaking before his turn. However, Brienne even puts a hand on his shoulder to get him to quiet down now.

“Not all of them. Not yet.” Jon replies.

“What about them?” Sansa asks at the same time.

“That’s meat you’re not eating. And I very much doubt that dragon cares about the difference between a cow and a man.” He offers, not all disturbed by the prospect.

 _It would be a very quick way to dispose of the bodies_ , Sansa catches herself thinking, but no, they can’t do that. They shouldn’t.

And yet…

Every animal they feed that monster is one less to go the smallfolk, to the knights and to the children of Winterfell.

Brienne’s face has contorted itself into a vision of disbelief, but the hand on his shoulder is still there. No longer holding him back. Supporting him instead.

“I’ll…take it into consideration.” Jon splutters, but is saved from said consideration for now, because one of the guards is asking for his attention, allowing him to turn away from them and towards the man.

Leaving Sansa to deal with their Lannister guest all by herself.

“Cute dog.” He holds out a finger to Jonquil, who does her utmost to try and bite it off.

“It’s not a dog.” She stares directly into his eyes, waiting for the inevitable conclusion to come.

“What do you mean it’s…oh, shite. There’s another set of ‘em?” He’s not as frightened of the direwolves as he is of the dragons, but she can tell that it makes him uncomfortable to say the least.

“Oh, yes there is.” It’s hard not to smirk at his wide eyes and his mouth agape.

“Is this one going to be as big as your brother’s direwolf?” he asks, hand now well away from her little pup.

“As big as Ghost? I don’t know.” Sansa hums.

“That was neither the direwolf nor the brother I was talking about.” He swallows and just like that, Sansa remembers that Ser Jaime had been a prisoner of Robb. Would’ve seen his direwolf up close and personal.

“well, one can only hope.” She singsongs, all but laughing at his reaction. The memory of Robb and Grey Wind has been through years of ridicule and derision, but here he is, the son of Tywin Lannister, still quaking in his boots at the very thought of them.

“Open the Gates! Open them now!” Jon shouts out of nowhere, abruptly ending their attempt at small talk.

The men on the other end of the courtyard follow his commands instantly and not a moment later, three riders come bursting through, riding straight up to Jon.

It’s only once they’re faces are lit by the torchlight that Sansa recognizes them.

Dolorous Edd, lord Beric Dondarrion and Tormund Giantsbane.

“Those fuckers! -” Tormund yells. “- Those absolute fuckers!”

“What happened?” Jon’s hand is already resting on longclaw.

“They brought back the dragon. Must’ve fished the corpse out of that bloody lake.” Lord Beric adds.

And then? Then Edd speaks up, telling them what they’d hoped to never hear:

“The Night’s Watch is gone. The Wall has fallen and the dead are coming.”


	21. A Song of Ice

Sansa’s breath stalls in her throat. This is it. This is the moment they’ve been dreading. No more time for plans. No more time for scheming.

Whatever happens now, tonight they’ll know if everything they’ve done will be enough to survive or if it’ll all be for naught.

“Get Arya and Grey Worm. Find Davos. Gather the women and children.” Jon tells two knights while Edd, Beric and Tormund unmount.

“Shireen! -” Sansa calls the girl to her and promptly hands her Jonquil. “- Find Bran, get him and the pups to the crypts. Do it quickly.”

“Is it…? Is this…?” She has to raise her voice to talk over the pup’s mewling.

“Yes, the army of the Dead is here.”

Shireen immediately turns around to look for…ah, her cousin Gendry. She understands, the thought of what might happen to Jon, Arya and Bran scares Sansa to the marrow of her bones, but still, there’s no time for this. No time for any of it.

“He’ll do what he has to do to survive and you must do so as well. Go now, _please_.” She lays a hand on her cheek and prays to the Gods that one day, they’ll be able to talk about all of this over some cider and lemon cakes.

 Shireen nods and sets off running while Sansa turns to her lady knight.

“Brienne. As anticipated.” Is all that needs to be said.

“Yes, My lady.”

Together, they head for the armoury, wander past the flurry of guards, knights, farmers, hunters, cooks, maids, seamstresses and everyone who was willing to bear arms. They’ve been instructed. They know where to find the necessities to fight.

And in the back of building. Sansa finds hers as well.

There’s no weapon for her. She wouldn’t know what to do with one either way, but to go out on the battlements without some form of armour would be madness.

As such, Brienne helps her put on her set of pauldrons, her breastplate and her vambraces. It’s heavy and rather hard to move in, but at least her skirts and legs are still free to move about. Not trapped in metal like some of the knights are.

It doesn’t take long before Arya joins her, dressed in her usual attire, making no attempts to put on something else. Something more.

“Ready?” She asks Sansa.

“That’s all you’re going to wear?” She raises an eyebrow at the worn cloth and leather.

“I’m a swordfighter, not a bucket.” Her sister smirks.

“Then you better hope that the dead out there aren’t quicker than you are.”

“Not today they’re not. _Not today_.”

Together they head for the doorway out of the armoury, Brienne steadfastly by their side, to join Jon and Tormund again. Not surprisingly, both the Lannister brothers are there as well. It’s a strange idea, three Starks and two Lannisters fighting side by side. After all the blood that’s been spilled, after every injustice done.

Here they still are.

“Right. -” Jon starts. “- Grey Worm will be taking the Unsullied towards the west. Ser Davos will be taking the Baratheon troops to the east. The Knights of the Vale and the Free Folk will lead the charge under the command of Brienne and Tormund. The Northern Bannermen will be at Winterfell, holding the line there. They will make sure that none of the dead pass us by. Arya, Sansa, you’ll lead them from within the walls.”

“Are you sure I can’t come with? Ride with the Free Folk. Take the bannermen further out? I can do it. I swear.” Arya holds onto Jon’s shoulder, eyes wide with the fear for another goodbye. A permanent one this time.

“This isn’t a question of skill, Arya. I need you two here. The only way I can do what I must out there is if I know that you’re defending our home.” He rests his forehead against hers. Quietly willing her to understand.

But Sansa has caught a gaping hole in his strategy. A missing link in his chain of command.

“What is it that you must be doing out there?” Because he’s assigned all of the armies to commanders and none to himself.

“I will take Rhaegal to face his brother.” His breath shudders at the words.

_No._

“How? Are you going to warg into him again? You’ll be helpless!” Of all the stupid plans Jon’s made over the years, this one has got to take the crown.

“I won’t. I think…We’ve forged an understanding. I’ll be riding him.”

“An understanding?! We had to tie him up to keep him from killing us all.”

“Sansa, we have _no choice._ Setting that thing loose by itself is not an option. Me being physically absent is not an option. Keeping the dragon locked up when the enemy has one _is not an option. -_ ” He puts his hands on her cheek and stares at her with those awfully beautiful brown eyes. “- You’ve been with me this far. Please be with me for a little while longer.”

And damn him to the Seven Hells and back, because there is nothing she won’t do when he asks her like that.

“Be careful. Be smart.” She breathes.

“Thank you.” He places a very gentle kiss on her forehead and Sansa has to blink away the tears when she realizes it might be the very last.

“Ermh, not to interrupt, but…what are we supposed to be doing?” Jaime Lannister’s voice is like a cold rain on a summer’s day.

He motions between himself and Tyrion.

“I’ll be joining the Unsullied. -” The younger brother replies. “- You’re welcome to join me.”

“Do what you want. Just kill as many of those things as you can and stay alive. That advice goes for all of you. -” He gazes at Arya and Sansa specifically. “- And remember, if you see that wight dragon, you don’t wait for him to come to you, you take cover immediately.”

“We’re ready to take off the chains.” Gendry’s voice interrupts. He’s wearing armour as well. Has two hammers with him. One for smithing. One for war.

“Good. Let’s go.” She can tell that Jon is trying to linger. Trying not to take those final steps. But in the end, he has to make the decision to leave them behind.

“Wait!” Arya shouts, just before Gendry joins him.

“Yeah?” The young Baratheon swallows.

“Don’t die.” Her sister croaks.

“Sure. You…uh…you don’t die either, alright?” He nods, looking terribly unsure that either of them will be able to keep that promise.

The silence lingers for another moment. It isn’t fair that they’re saying goodbye. Not to any of them. They never asked for these horrors coming for them. Didn’t court a death like this and yet…

“Ah, sod it!” Arya huffs and puts both her arms around Gendry.

And then _kisses_ him like her whole life depends on it.

 The poor boy actually has to take a second to recover from the shock, but after that, he seems more than willing to return the gesture.

“Gendry!” Jon shouts, voice filled with an indignance men tend to reserve for their sister’s suitors.

“Yes! Dragon! Coming!” He yells back once he’s come up for air.

Arya lets him go and turns around without another word, never staring back at any of them, just steely preparing for the battle ahead as if nothing has happened. Gendry and Jon don’t linger either, heading for the Dragon Pit to face their next challenge.

“Well, if that isn’t an excellent plan…” Jaime Lannister snorts, tugs Brienne to him and kisses both her cheeks before ever so briefly placing one on her lips as well.  Then, he simply follows his brother to their horses.

“What the…Who the _fuck_ does he think he is?” Sansa has honest to the Gods never heard Tormund sound so aggravated.

“He’s the one who gave me a Valyrian sword.” Brienne blinks, clearly trying to shrug off the surprise and moving to get up on her own horse.

After that, most of what Sansa sees and does is lost in the final preparations. Getting those who can’t fight into the crypts and those that can out to their respective places. She does note however, that the snow has stopped falling and that the wind is no longer howling at them.

For the first time in days.

Something like a shiver runs down her spine as she watches their commanders line up to go through the gates.

This is the Night King’s doing. She’s sure of it.

Finally, when they’re all ready to go, ready to leave them behind, she stares at Jon, sees him wave a short goodbye to her, just as he did when he left for the south. And even though it hurts, Sansa raises her hand and does the same as she did then.

It’s a goodbye, but it’s simply not nearly enough.

He’s the first one to go, the first one who goes past the archway and out of her view. Beyond that, all she can do is look for the others. For a steely-eyed Grey Worm, a nervous Davos, a frightened Tyrion, a brave Lord Royce, two bold Mormonts and Brienne, almost ready to give her horse the spurs.

“Remember, my Lady, whatever you do, don’t hesitate in doing it. That’s the key to a battle.”

“I will, thank you, Brienne. For everything.” Her eyes are watering again. Haven’t stopped, really.

“It was my duty and my pleasure.” She takes the reigns and moves forward, ending up by Tormund’s side.

“Tonight, woman! -” Sansa hears him bellow. “- We will be feasting on victory!”

“I do believe that we will be, Ser.” Brienne’s voice conveys both a newfound respect and a cautious amusement in one sentence.

Tormund laughs loudly and rides towards his men, while Ser Jaime comes up on his horse behind her.

“Who in the seven hells is that, anyway?” He whines.

“He’s the one who brought us his armies.” Brienne grins and…is she enjoying this?

Shaking her head, Sansa leaves them to their own devices and takes the steps up to the battlement. There, their archers are waiting for them. Down below, just outside the wall are the rest of the Bannermen, ready to follow Jorah and Lyanna into battle.

She can see Arya, standing at the other end of the battlements, the archers left between the two of them as intended.

On first glance, the world outside the walls doesn’t look much different. The pale moonlight reflects on the white snow just as it always does. However, if Sansa focusses, if she looks far enough in the distance, she can already see it. A horizon filled with bodies. Dutifully shambling towards them like a massive army.

And then, in one brief moment, a dark shadow passes over the moon and _she knows._ That’s the third dragon. The dead one. They’d courted Daenerys’s alliance to make sure they’d have the advantage over the Others and now, Sansa ruefully thinks, they’ve gained very little of it.

They’ve gained a dragon.

So has the enemy.

They’ve got a large army.

So does the enemy.

They have the dragonglass to kill the wights.

The white walkers can recruit the men who die on their side to make up for the loss.

Still, equal chances are better than slim chances, and with a loud, beating heart, Sansa watches as everyone takes their places.

She can’t see Jon, but there’s a roar coming from the Dragon Pit.

Rhaegal has taken wing.

_Hopefully with Jon, rather than without._

But she cannot doubt now. She’s got her own task to perform and it has to be done meticulously. The archers need to know when to send out their volleys and Arya and Sansa will be giving the order to do that.

It was agreed upon weeks ago, when the sun was still out, that there are lines on the battlefield which the dead are going to cross. Once they reach a line, Arya, or Sansa, depending on whether the wights come from the left or the right, will give the order and the archers will launch their dragonglass arrows at the enemy.

They’ve practiced spotting their imaginary lines in the dark as well, so both of them know exactly when they can let loose and when the arrows are able to cross the distance to the dead.

Right now, though, it feels like they are taking forever to get there. Sansa’s observed battles from a distance, had sat inside Red Keep during them, so she knows how to wait them out, but this? Giving the enemy the chance to move further and further towards them? It’s a wholly different game.

It is achingly slow and terrifyingly deceptive. She instinctively _wants_ her men to shoot. Wants to end the threat here and now, but if she does, if they shoot now, they’ll do nothing but lose precious arrows in the empty patches of snow.

She knows that their archers are feeling the same tension, the same nerves, but that they’ll obey the commands of the Starks from Winterfell. That’s why it was agreed upon that Sansa and Arya would do this, because a commanding officer doesn’t inspire the same loyalty and trust.

Her eyes wander briefly over to Arya, she’s staring at their lines as well. Anxiously preparing the moment for when they can strike. Likewise, down below, the troops that she _can_ see, are bristling and ready for combat.

But they can’t.

They must _wait._

It feels like an eternity before the wights start to slowly wander over the first line. But they do. Uncaring or perhaps unknowing of the slaughter that awaits them all.

“Nock!” Sansa shouts.

Her archers move as one, drawing their arrows and laying them on their bows.

Arya follows not a moment later with the same command. They’ve crossed on her side of the line too.

“Aim!” She orders, a few moments later. There has to be enough fodder to hit, so to speak.

The archers point their bows upward.

 _The moment of truth._ Sansa thinks, swallowing the last of her nerves.

“ _Loose!_ ” 

Not a breath later, Arya echoes the same command.

“Loose!”

 The volley releases on both ends of the battlements, disappearing into the dark night. They can’t see them anymore, but neither can their enemy.

It takes a few heartbeats, but then, the rain of arrows descends and great swaths of the wights drop lifelessly down into the snow.

Pride and relief flood her body and Arya immediately gives word to the sentiment.

“Yeah!” She holds up her sword and the archers follow with whoops and elation of their own.

But the danger is far from gone. They may have hit the first few ranks of them, but the dead still outnumber the living by frightening numbers. Moreover, where a normal army might be intimidated by watching all those in front of them go down, the dead simply keep on marching, stepping over the bodies of their fellows without any sign of doubt.

Sansa’s newfound courage sinks back into a marsh of fear and it takes her a lot of effort to keep her eyes on the second line.

“Nock!” Arya is first, this time around.

She follows her lead when the first feet start shuffling over hers.

“Aim!”

Their archers are braver than Sansa feels, because they don’t seem to hesitate in fulfilling the order.

“Loose!” Arya and Sansa shout out at exactly the same moment.

Another volley disappears into the night, and several more ranks of wights fall within moments. This time, there’s no cheering or happiness. Everyone understands that they still have two more chances to hit as much as they can. After that, it’s up to their knights and foot soldiers to do the rest.

When the wights cross the third line, Sansa can finally see with her own eyes that they really are _dead._ She doesn’t know what she was expecting, men and women neatly preserved by the cold or the magic? Nothing is less true. There are gaping holes on those bodies in the distance, some are missing arms or a leg and a stench wafts onto the wind towards Winterfell.

“Nock!” Sansa orders a tad too early.

No matter. She’ll just wait longer to give the next command.

“Aim!” This one is perfectly timed. No longer synchronised with Arya, on her side, the dead are moving slower.

“Loose!”

Her third volley flies.

The ranks are thinned down once more.

The fourth and final line lies both close to the third and close to Winterfell. This is their last chance. Each of the archers only have one dragonglass arrow left. It’s not enough to kill all of the wights. Their foot soldiers and the knights will not lack in enemies to fight and with a shock Sansa quietly realizes that they _will_ reach Winterfell.

It’s set in stone now.

No longer a far-off nightmare. Within the hour, Sansa’s home will be invaded. She will know these dead men and women up close.

“Nock.” She breathes quietly, before realizing that her archers will not be able to hear it.

“Nock!” She repeats, this time loud enough to be heard.

The Archers are still doing as they are told, but the rhythm of their movement is faltering, they too can see the enemy approaching unrelentingly.

“Aim!”

A horse from one of the knights below neighs, but there isn’t a sound other than that.

“Loose!” her voice trembles ever so slightly when she gives the final command, but the trajectory of the arrows is still the same. Upwards onto the dark sky and downwards straight into their deadly foes.

 Arya’s last volley is let loose not long after that, and once it has, the archers immediately begin preparing for the next stage of the battle. They leave their bows and their quivers behind on the battlements and head out down to the gates to protect it with swords, dragonglass daggers and dragonglass spears.

And as Sansa is watching all of this, Arya comes up to her.

“You should head for the crypts now. It won’t be long until -”

A roar interrupts her words. But it isn’t Rhaegal. No, he’s off somewhere to their left. This comes from straight ahead. A dark figure casting a large shadow over the moonlight.

_The third dragon._

He’s quickly speeding towards them now that the arrows are no longer flying.

A thundering growl corresponds to it, and this one _is_ coming from their left. Then, a flash of fire lights up the battlefield. There’s no screaming from the wights, but a dragon soars over the burning corpses and with this new light Sansa can see that Rhaegal, like his brother, has a rider sitting on top of him.

_He did it._

_He really did it._

The slightest of smiles grows on Sansa’s face. Meanwhile, in the wake of the fire, their knights are starting their charge. In a v-shape, the Free Folk and the Knights of the Vale crash over the field and into the hapless dead standing in their way.

Overhead, Rhaegal is entangled with his brother, his giant maw wrapped around its neck. Several of the White Walkers below try to hit them with icy spears, but the armour serves its purpose and none of them reach their target.

“Go! You have to get out of here now!” Arya shouts over the dragons wailing.

Sansa merely nods. There is no more use for her here. All she can do now is head for safety and trust that her people will keep the danger at bay as best they can.

“Be careful.” She tells Arya, and quickly slips in a final hug.

“I love you.” Her sister murmurs into her ear before letting go.

As she makes her way down the battlements Sansa is suddenly struck with the fear that she might never gather with Arya here again. No more stupid jokes or talking about the past. If one of them doesn’t live through this night, they’ll no longer have that sisterhood bond. The one they’ve denied themselves for so long.

With wet eyes, Sansa heads down the stairs and forces herself to think about the people hiding in the crypts. The innocents. The children. _Bran._ Shireen. They need someone to guide them. Someone to keep them brave.

She’d done it at King’s landing.

She can damn well do it here.

However, when Sansa passes the Great Hall, something goes terribly awry.

A storm kicks up all of the sudden. Ice and snow are blown up from the ground and blasted up into the air and onto her face.

She shields herself with her arms.

Then, the earth shakes so badly that Sansa cannot keep her balance and falls over.

When the wind is gone and she can finally see again, the Hall has seemingly been twisted and turned out of shape. The heavy stones are reaching up into the sky where there’s a blue sun staring down at her.

Or no.

That’s not a sun.

_That is an eye._

And those are not stones; They are scales.

_Oh gods…_

The dragon roars and with an otherworldly hiss there are flames and heat rising out from its throat. A fire blazes and blinds her but it doesn’t hit her. Not Sansa, no. It goes over her head and hits the Guest House instead. She has no idea who’s there. If the building is empty or if there are still men protecting it.

The dragon bellows again, but Sansa cannot get up. She cannot move. Her legs have abandoned its function; all she can do is stare up at the monster and wait for the inevitable end.

It doesn’t come.

Another storm hits her. This time from behind.

She’s never been able to tell one dragon from another, not by sight and definitely not by sound, but the growl that comes next feels different. Feels safer. Feels protective almost.

 _Jon!_ Her mind cries out. He’s here. They’re not alone in this!

Then, with an impossible speed and a blow that shatters belief, Rhaegal crashes into his brother, feet first, clawing at the other one’s chest.

The walls of the Great Hall cannot carry their burden any longer. There’s an ominous creak, a groan from the very foundations of the building, and then, with a cloud of dust and snow, it collapses onto itself.

She coughs and has to put her hands in front of her mouth to keep breathing. To stop them from trembling so violently. Something grabs a hold of her and Sansa starts to push almost on instinct, scrambling away from it.

“Please! It’s alright! I’m not…” Two kind brown eyes stare back at her.

“Missandei!?” Sansa heaves.

A firm arm wraps around her shoulder.

“We must go to the crypts, yes?”

“Yes. Yes! Absolutely.”

The handmaiden helps her up and even in the haze, Sansa notes that she’s wearing the uniform of a Northern archer.

Had she been…?

The volley’s…?

It doesn’t matter now. The safety of her ancestors is calling to her and she has to run across the courtyard and underneath the bridge to get to it. In the distance, she can hear the shouting of men again. There’s no dragonfire now, so it must be something else.

Someone else breaching their walls.

But she cannot watch. That would be far too dangerous. Instead, they pick up their pace and don’t look back.

In the distance she can see the entrance to the crypt.

Almost there.

Her hand grabs a hold of Missandei’s and wills them both to reach just a little further. Just until she can touch the wolf statues at the entrance.

Until they are both protected and out of harm’s way once more.

* * *

 

“Everyone! We have to move as far back into the crypts as we can!” Shireen shouts, her voice echoing through the long hallway.

A lot of the people are listening, but a few stubborn elders staunchly refuse to go further.

“Do as she says!” Bran’s voice has never sounded quite as commanding and as deep as it does now. He might be a cripple stuck in a chair to them, but he is still a Stark of Winterfell, and that carries more than enough weight to get everyone moving again.

Shireen has both Jonquil and Florys in her arms still.

Bael, Symeon, Shella and Florian are piled up in Bran’s lap. Rowan, she’s handed over to a very anxious Varys, because that’s the only pup who never struggles when she’s passed onto different hands.

Gilly is with them. She’s got baby Sam on her hips and a look on her face that says she’ll do whatever she can to keep her son safe.

“Wait? Where’s Missandei?” Shireen can’t find her face in the crowd, can’t see her friend anywhere.

“She’s probably already up ahead.” Gilly answers and yes, that makes sense.

It has to make sense.

They can’t go out to check anymore.

Slowly but certainly, the temperature rises around them as they head deeper down the corridors. There’s not much choice anyway. There are a few side tunnels here and there, but everyone’s been instructed to just keep going forward. That’s only way to safety.

Onwards.

Downwards.

Deeper into the ground.

The statues here no longer have faces. Time has carved them all off. They may have been Starks at one point, but it’s impossible to tell who they used to be.

Briefly, Shireen wonders if the original Bael is in here somewhere. Or at least, his head, because that was the only thing his son had brought back. Bael’s wife sure should be, but now is not the time to go looking for her.

It takes them a good while to find their final stop; the end of the lit torches. Further down, the hallways are no longer built with sconces and so it wouldn’t be a great idea to go wandering around there.

The people of Winterfell know this and have already begun putting down their sparse belongings. Sharing whatever they can with one another. Bits of food, water, blankets, furs or simply words of comfort.

“What’s happening out there?” She asks Bran, before remembering that he probably hasn’t a clue either.

“They’ll be fighting, I suppose. Keeping the dead at bay.” Bran mutters.

“Do you think we can defeat them?” her voice trembles ever so slightly.

“We have to believe that, don’t we? Otherwise, what’s the point of all this?”

And if not, well, then surely, they won’t be around much longer to regret it.

“I guess so.” She hums, still trying to find Missandei in the crowd. She’s bound to be here somewhere.

“I used to dream about this place, you know. Before I left Winterfell.”

“What about?” Shireen cocks her head to the side. It’s quiet here and if anything is happening above their heads, they wouldn’t know.

“A raven with three eyes.” He breathes out.

Which, that’s so very odd. Almost like an echo from the future to the past. Bran hadn’t been the Three Eyed Raven yet, but it still existed within him, in some way.

“What would it do?”

“Not much. Just sit at the entrance of the crypt. Fly into it and…” Bran trails off, staring down the corridor.

For a moment, Shireen worries that he might have another fit or that the old Bran is back again. Which would be bad, because as much as she liked him, she actually finds that she likes this version of him better. He’s more _here._

“We need to go.” He blurts out.

“What?!” Shireen splutters.

“I know…I know what’s going to happen.”

“Did you see it?”

“No. Well, maybe. No. Just, a long time ago I did.” Bran tries.

“We can’t go out there.” She tells him, already trying to think of ways on how they might be able to anyway.

“We don’t need to go _out there_ specifically. Just away from these people. To the entrance.”

“Why?” Shireen puts Florys and Jonquil in a nearby basket.

“Because I know what the Night King wants.” He hands her Bael.

“What is it?”

“Me. He wants me.” Bran swallows.

“He wants you…just you. So, you want to make sure he doesn’t get to anyone else in here.” She picks up Symeon and Shella.

“I know how mad it sounds. But you must let me go.” He puts a hand on her arm, pleading her to listen. To do something.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, we’ll go.” She gives Florys a final pat on the head.

“ _We_ will?” His eyebrows try their very best to climb up to his hairline.

“Well, I didn’t just put the pups in a basket because I think they’d be particularly comfortable there.”

There was meant to be a purpose to her resurrection. She was meant to help Spring come along. Obviously, she can’t singlehandedly put winter to an end but she can’t just…sit by and do nothing. Not when almost everyone she cares about is out there fighting.

If Bran has a plan to keep the people in the crypts safe, well, then she has to do whatever she can to see it to fruition. Because if she doesn’t protect them from this, what kind of ruler is she really?

Her father had set off from Dragonstone to protect Westeros from the Others.

Now, it’s her turn to make good on his word.

Quietly, and without anyone noticing, Shireen pushes Bran’s chair away from the crowd. Back into the shadows of the crypts.

They walk all the way back without saying so much as a word. The only ones noticing their journey are the statues, unmoving and uncaring as they’ve always been.

The air grows colder and feels lighter here, the scent of it less like clay and stone and more like the outdoors.

It should feel good, refreshing, comforting, but today, the cold is their enemy and it’s trying to creep in and destroy everything they know. There are heavy thumps in the distance. A sign of the battle going on above. If she listens closely, Shireen thinks she can hear the shouts of knights in the distance.

And then…

Footsteps. Multiple pairs. Heading closer.

“Missandei!” Shireen smiles when she recognizes her friend in the dim light.

“Sansa!” Bran says at exactly the same time.

The Lady of Winterfell looks undone, as if she’s been through all the Seven Hells and back and Missandei is wearing a soldier’s garb…for some reason.

“What are you two doing out here? You need to get further back!” Sansa snaps, worry etched clearly on her face.

“You don’t understand! The Night King is coming for me. Not for anyone else. If I-” Bran splutters.

“No! You are not going to…Jon is out there fighting to defend us. All of us. And we will make it, do you hear me? I’ve lost you so many times in so many ways, I _won’t_ do it again.” She sounds hysterical. Whatever she’s seen out there, it’s certainly left an impression.

“I can’t just sit there and wait for him to come and kill them all!” He insists.

“So, you thought, what? You’ll go and greet him first.” Sansa grabs a hold of his shoulders, willing him to listen.

But instead, Bran turns towards someone else.

“Missandei, please go to the others, make sure they are safe while I convince my sister that this is where I’m meant to be.”

She seems to hesitate. Not used to receiving a command from him, her gaze shifts from Sansa to Shireen and back again.

“Please.” Shireen whispers, because this is for the best. Whatever happens next, Missandei should not be put at risk too.

With a deeply sad look in her beautiful eyes, her friend turns away, running down the hallway and out of their view.

“Bran, this isn’t a matter of debate. We have to go.” Sansa sounds exhausted and Shireen feels rather guilty about doing this to her. To the person who so gracefully had let her into her home and into her heart.

“Sansa, I can’t do that. You and Shireen. You should go, but I have to stay.” He squeezes his eyes shut.

Shireen let’s out a long, deep breath and notices that a little puff of mist is visible when she does so.

That’s not right.

The hot springs are meant to keep the crypts warm.

“Hey, is it getting colder?” She asks to no-one in particular.

Sansa’s eyes grow wide and even Bran’s sure veneer is starting to show some cracks.

The torches before them are blown out by an unseen force.

“Oh no, no, no, no.” Sansa whispers.

She gets up, moves in front of the two of them. Trying to shield them like she’d shielded Shireen from Nymeria. Unlike Nymeria, though. The danger ahead of them is not a hungry and scared animal. There is nothing that will deter this threat in its path.

There are footsteps again.

One pair this time.

Two shining blue eyes are visible before the rest of him comes into view.

His skin is such an unnatural pale blue, Shireen thinks, and the grooves on his face only further emphasize this. He doesn’t look angry or aggrieved or even particularly motivated to get to them. It’s as if he’s already certain that he will get what he wants.

She remembers Melisandre, all of the sudden, whispering of the Great Other, of the God of cold and darkness and Shireen thinks that maybe, maybe they’re staring it in the face right now.

“Back. Go back!” Sansa’s not talking to the Night King. She’s telling Bran and Shireen to retreat. Which, before Shireen can even think to ask Bran, her hands are already on the handles of the chair pulling it backwards.

But as it turns out, the wheels were not made to go in the wrong direction at such a speed.

 It only takes a tiny little rock.

The wheel slips.

The chair tips over.

Shireen goes with it, landing next to Bran on the ground.

Sansa hears the ruckus and immediately turns towards them to try and help Bran get away, to drag him across the floor if she has to.

“Don’t do this! -” Shireen shouts at the Night King. Because she has to try. Because some part of him must’ve been human once and there is nothing here for him to gain. “- Please!”

The Night King isn’t listening.

But another God just might be, because there’s a gleam in the darkness.

A slim blade coming from the shadows.

In that one split second, it looks as though the Great Other will be struck down right then and there, but he dodges.

Looks his assaulter in the eyes.

“Arya…” Bran murmurs.

Sure enough, there she is. The She-Wolf of Winterfell, looking as fearless as ever, but quite a bit worse for wear. There’s a wound on her head already, dripping with blood, and she seems unsteady on her feet.

Or as unsteady as a water dancer can be, because she’s still easily circling the frozen King.

He’s got a large sword though, one that he uses to liberally swing about, hoping to hit her but failing to at every turn.

“Come on, you fucker. Let’s get this over with.” She snarls impatiently.

And it’s because of this agitation that she makes a lethal mistake. Because when he’s just on the downswing of a particularly large stroke, Arya takes her chance and moves close enough to strike him.

But as fast as Arya is, the Night king is faster.

He bends away from Needle and instead of trying to hit her with his sword, he uses his free hand to grab her by the wrist.

Arya screams.

He pulls the frozen sword back, smirks, and plunges it down into Arya’s shoulder.

“Arya, _no!_ ” Sansa howls and gets up from her place by Bran’s side. She runs towards her sister, but to what end, Shireen doesn’t know.

Said sister however, is not quite finished with her fight, because she strikes back with Needle, held in the other hand.

The Valyrian steel hits the Ice of the frozen blade and it instantly shatters into a million little pieces. Releasing Arya from the Night King’s grip.

And Sansa is right there to catch her when she stumbles backwards, pulling her away from the enemy, before both of them tumble on the ground.

“It hurts. Oh Gods, Sans, it hurts!” Arya wails.

“It’s alright. Ssssh. It’s alright.” Sansa weeps, holding her sister close.

The Night King however, remains undeterred, even without a weapon. He steps towards them again, holding a hand out to Bran. Willing him to…

Shireen doesn’t know what it wants, but she knows what _she_ wants.

She wants to keep Bran. Wants him to stay with her for as long as possible, and clings to him in a desperate attempt to keep him there.

Her hand finds his hand, fingers entwining and grip as tight as it can possibly be.

If this is the end, then she’ll go down with him. They’ll find spring in some other world, far away from this one. Arya and Sansa will be there too and so will Jon and Ser Davos and Gendry and Missandei and Gilly and Sam and _everyone._

She closes her eyes.

Listens to the pounding of those two heavy boots, shuffling ever closer, listens to the battle raging outside, to the crackling of the torches behind them and…

There’s another sound. One that she can’t quite place at first.

_Wings._

A bird. Or no. Not just one. It sounds like a thousand wings, coming ever closer. Fluttering about and crowding the space around them.

Cautiously, Shireen opens her eyes, expecting the corridor to be filled with flying creatures of some kind.

There’s nothing.

The Night King has stopped in his path, though. Seemingly staring at something behind them.

She turns her head and there’s a young man standing in the hallway.

A very, _very_ familiar young man.

“Bran?” She blinks, looks back at the boy who’s lying next to her and then at the figure that’s walking towards them.

It’s the same.

Two Brans.

One walking.

One not.

Before she can even begin processing what it might mean, the Bran who’s upright comes to stand next to her.

“He’s here. -” He tells her, before looking at the Night King. “- He’s here.”

The same words he’d used that fateful day in the Great Hall, during the trial for Varys’s murder. And just like that, Shireen knows exactly who it is that’s with them now.

“It’s not me. T-that’s…” Her Bran stares at himself with large eyes.

“The Three Eyed Raven.” She whispers.

As calm as the Night King himself, the other Bran walks up to his foe, staring him in the eyes with a serenity she could only ever ascribe to the boy she’d met in Winterfell the first time around.

Then, without warning or clear sign, The Night King’s hand shoots forward, trying to grab a hold of his opponent.

The Three Eyed Raven catches it with the same unnatural speed. The other arm goes up to try and strike him, but he blocks that with ease as well.

A wordless scream comes from the Night King and he twists himself around to get free. Once he’s out of the Raven’s grip he doubles back and manages to grasp at the side of his neck.

With a force Shireen has never seen before, the not-Bran is thrown into one of the crypt walls, leaving a deep indent in the rocks behind it. And it doesn’t stop there. The King takes two large steps and grabs the Raven again. Slamming him into the same wall again.

And again.

And again.

Until finally, the Raven manages to slip free and move away.

He’s not limping, but his right arm looks all but crushed, his leg on the same side has clearly seen better days and there’s blood pooling on the side of his tunic.

Shireen looks at her Bran’s other arm. The one that’s lying by his side, wrapped in a splint.

“Smacked onto the ground with great force.” She murmurs, remembering what the injuries had looked like.

The fight in front of them, however, is still very much ongoing. The Three Eyed Raven is crouched on the ground but the Night King is coming for him again.

But then she sees, they all see, what it is the Raven is doing down there. He’s reaching for Needle, left abandoned after Arya dropped it.

The Night King smiles, and sweeps his hand in the direction of the Raven’s mangled arm. A sword that can defeat the Great Other, but the Three Eyed Raven doesn’t have the sword hand to use it.

And so, without fear or doubt, the Night King charges at him, his long grasp already opening up to hold the Raven in a deadly embrace.

The Three Eyed Raven twists and flips over, before diving into the struggle himself. Two ice blue hands begin to wring his neck and Shireen watches with a pounding heart as the Raven starts to gasp for air.

Or maybe he’s not gasping.

Maybe he’s doing something wholly else, because the Night King suddenly stops.

He stands there and for the first time, has a look of surprise gracing his terrifying features.

There’s a blade sticking into his chest, right where his heart would’ve been had he been a human.

“The sword was made for a left-handed child.” The Raven tells him and holds up his completely healthy arm.

The Night King screams once more and this time, there is a noise to accompany it. Something that sounds like both a man and a wrathful wind howling at the same moment.

 He stumbles backwards while his limbs begin to crack and deteriorate. Bit by bit, he falls to pieces. This terror that has stretched across centuries, now slowly reduced to nothingness.

The Three Eyed Raven has already lost interest in the process. Turning around and looking at the other occupants of the hallway.

But like his frozen counterpart, the Raven isn’t doing quite alright himself. There’s a black smoke-like substance oozing from him, going upwards into non-existence.

“What’s happening?” Bran asks.

“I’m dying. You know that I am.” The Raven replies in the same monotonous voice she knew from the Bran of before.

 “But why?” Shireen tries, because he’s got the same injuries as Bran had and that’s clearly healing just fine.

“I was made for _him._ Because of _him._ Without him I have no reason to exist.” The Raven doesn’t seem sad at all. If anything, he sounds relieved.

“You could stay!” Bran pleads.

“Yes, you don’t need to go!” Shireen adds.

“That wouldn’t be right. -” The Raven looks upwards, to a sky that isn’t visible underneath the layers of earth. “- No, I think it’s time for Bran to wake up now.”

And with that, the last pieces of him disintegrate.

He’s gone.

So is the Night King.

The only signs of their struggle is a hole in the wall, Needle lying abandoned on the floor and Arya.

“Oh no! Arya!” For the first time since tripping up, Shireen is brave enough to move.

She settles by the Stark sisters.

“It’s cold.” Arya’s murmuring. “it’s so cold, Sans.”

“It’s alright, sweetheart, we’ll get you warm. I promise you, we _will_ get you warm.” There are tears streaming down Sansa’s face, even as she presses her hand on the wound that’s now gushing blood.

Without thinking, Shireen adds her own.

“Help!- ” Bran shouts, his deep voice echoing through the empty corridors. “- Someone help!”

He keeps shouting and Shireen thinks about getting up but if she lets go of the wound, then what will happen? Arya’s eyes are blinking slowly, slipping close.

“Arya! Stay awake.” Sansa orders her. “You have to stay awake!”

“Help!” Bran bellows out again.

“I‘m sorry.” Arya slurs, body suddenly going lax.

“No. no. no. Don’t you dare! Do not do this to me! You cannot do this. Not after everything we’ve been through!” Sansa cries.

“Quickly, please!” Bran shouts and Shireen suddenly realizes that there’s someone approaching.

Fast steps down the hallway. The same place as where the Night King came from, but a wholly different face appears in the light of the torches that are still burning.

_Ser Jaime Lannister._

“What is it!? What happened?”

“She got hurt! A sword of ice!” Bran tells him.

Ser Jaime slides down towards their level and takes a quick look at poor Arya.

“Yep. That’s bad. -” He agrees, then looks at Shireen. “- keep your hands there, girl. Very good.”

“Help her, you…you have to help her.” Sansa’s voice speaks haltingly and through stilted breaths.

“Give me one of those belts from your fancy dress, and we’ll see what we can do.” He commands and despite the fact that Sansa is in all sorts of states, she does exactly what he asks.

“Tie it there under her armpit, right. Come on, I can’t do it with one hand!”

“She can’t die. Please.” Sansa begs, but her fingers are making quick work of the job he’s given her.

“Oh, she’s not going to die. You Starks are a hardy breed. I should know, I once stabbed your father in the leg and he was just fine afterwards. Come along now, help me get her in my arms so I can pick her up.” Jaime Lannister, despite missing one hand, still has plenty of strength in his arms, and once they’ve carefully positioned Arya in them, he gets up with ease.

“I’ll find a her a healer. I promise.” Is the last thing he tells them before getting up and rushing towards the passage out.

For a brief moment, the three of them sit there like that. Staring at the place where Arya and Jaime just where. None of them seem to know what to say.

Shireen has yet to figure out what has happened.

There were two Brans.

The Night King is gone.

Arya might die.

It’s all too much. She can’t really move. Can’t really think of doing anything. Not even when there are others arriving in this tiny spot where they are stuck between life and death.

Brienne is suddenly next to her, holding onto Sansa who has started crying again. Is still crying.

She doesn’t know.

Tormund is with her. He’s tending to Bran, getting him back in his chair and listening to his instructions.

They all sound muffled to Shireen.

Two hands come to rest on her face, drawing her away from her watch over nothing. Ser Davos’s face drifts into her vision.

“Princess Shireen? Shireen? Are you alright, love?”

She nods, even if she’s not sure that she is.

“We won. Did you know that? The dead are…well, they’re dead again. It’s going to be fine. Do you hear me? You were right, wasn’t the end of everything, just a bitch of a winter.”

She might be smiling.

She might not be.

Shireen’s definitely crying though. Not tears of happiness. Not yet. Not tears of sadness. It’s not that yet either.

It’s just tears.

Ser Davos pulls her towards him into a tight hug and she buries her head in his shoulder, letting the ashes of the hurt and the fear and the pain wash away with her tears.

Eventually, she’ll think of doing something else, of making steps towards a future they all feared might never come. But for now, she just wants to stay here and be safe, just for a little moment if the Gods can allow them that.

* * *

 

Sansa’s feet carefully step over a fallen brick. And then over another one, and then past a charred wooden beam.

All small pieces of the Great Hall she grew up in. It doesn’t look like the Hall anymore though. The remaining rubble seems strange and foreign in comparison to the place she knew. Her mind feels the same way. Like it was torn down and something completely different now lives in its place.

_Wrecked._

And yet. Not without repair.

Nothing seems to be without repair.

Not her spirit, Joffrey had taught her that.

Not her body, Ramsay had proven that much.

Not her people, As Daenerys had shown them all.

And not her sister either, because despite the Night King’s best attempt, Arya still lives. Ser Jaime had rushed her to Sam and Maester Wolkan just in time. The wound is deep, so it will take a long time before she’ll be recovered. An even longer time before she can properly use her right arm again.

Like Bran. Like Jon. Like Sansa herself, Arya had slipped through the eye of the needle. As appropriate as that sounds.

 _What do we say to the god of Death?_ Sansa reminds herself. _Not today._

She reaches the place that was once the platform upon which the high table stood. There’s nothing left of the hearth, but if she looks closely, she can see a small piece of the plate that had stood behind the fire.

It had been adorned with their sigil; small direwolves neatly sitting in a row.

How often had she stared at it as a child?

She picks up the stone and wipes the snow from the little wolf. It seems to have survived the onslaught of the dragons.

Sansa decides that she’ll keep this with her.

When she looks up, there a sky full of stars staring back at her where there was once a ceiling. And if she looks further out she can truly see the damage Winterfell has sustained.

The Guest House is gone. Completely and utterly. She knows it was hit by dragonfire but has no idea what happened after.

There are gaping holes in the inner walls and through them she can see that the bridge between the armoury and the Keep has collapsed. Which, the armoury seems to have held out admirably. The Keep was not so lucky.

She doesn’t know how many times Rhaegal and his brother hit it, but it reminds her of the drawings she once saw of Harrenhal. She knows that there are men in there trying to salvage what they can. Whatever hasn’t been boiled by the heat.

The Broken Tower is, well, a bit more broken now, but at least it’s still a tower. The Sept is probably buried somewhere underneath the remains of the Great Hall and the stables have burned down to a blackened wreckage. What’s left of the Maester’s Turret and the Bell Tower is probably on the other side of the Hunter’s gate. Or it’s combined in the rubble that was once the Kitchen.

Surprisingly, the Library tower has actually fared rather well. It’s almost completely intact. Which is good, because they’re home to Winterfell’s entire history. Likewise, she’s heard that the heart tree survived unscathed.

“You don’t need to be out here.” A gentle voice shakes her from her thoughts.

_Jon._

Brienne had brought her to him after the battle and she’d all but fell into his arms, weeping, incoherent by the horrors and the relief. And even windswept and bruised just about everywhere, he’d tended to her. Had held her closely and had told her over and over again that they did it. That it was done. That they’d won.

He’d stayed with her until she fell asleep.

She’d awoken alone. The King in the North having presumably been called away by his people.

“I know. -” A smile tugs at her lips. “- I just…never mind. How is everyone?”

“Surprisingly well, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yes, it’s almost as if we’d endlessly prepared ourselves for this battle.” He snorts.

“Casualties?” Because she _knows_ that people have died in this fight.

“The knights of the Vale and the Baratheon troops were hit the hardest. A third of them didn’t make it. The Northern Bannermen and the Free Folk did fine, the advantage of fighting on familiar ground, I suppose. The Unsullied have suffered minimal losses. I think they pulled through on discipline alone.” He wraps an arm around her, keeping her warm.

“Good. That’s good. And Rhaegal?”

“Alive. He’s with his brother’s body now. Either mourning him or eating him. I’m not sure which.” And he doesn’t look eager to find out either.

For a moment, Sansa just breathes in Jon’s scent, in the safety of him and the love that’s beating through her heart.

But then, eventually, she has to gather her thoughts and make the decisions she’s been dreading to make.

“We can’t stay here. -” She sighs. “- Winter is far from over and we might’ve been able to sit it out in a whole and prepared Winterfell, but this…”

“We can rebuild it.” Jon tells her, gently putting a lock of her hair behind her ear.

“In spring, yes. But not now. The effort would likely kill us all.” She turns to stare into his perfect dark eyes.

“I agree.” He hums.

“We’ll have to head south for now.” She adds.

“Finally get warm.” Jon smiles.

Actually, Sansa’s not sure if she has to go south for that. She’s not cold at all right now. Warm with the relief of survival, warm with the thoughts of her future, warm with feelings that she can finally feel now.

It’s been locked inside for so long.

Hidden away by forces keeping them apart.

She allows her fingers to gently stroke across Jon’s cheeks, over his smiling lips and then over that beard that just won’t stop growing.

Something like giddiness bubbles up, and Sansa finds herself wholly willing to surrender to it for a change.

Leaning forward, she ever so carefully slots her mouth over his. 

If he is surprised by her forwardness, Jon doesn’t show it. Instead he wraps his arms around her and pulls her even closer to him.

They stay like that for as long as they possibly can. Standing in the ruins of the past, with a bright moon shining down upon them.

Eventually though, when their lungs are aching for a breath, they separate by the barest distance that they come up with.

“We’ll have to find carriages. -” Sansa murmurs. “- there’s still plenty of food in the storages that we need to take with us.”

“Hm. And our injured men. They’ll need to be carried as well.” He lets his thumb stroke across her neck.

“White Harbor can take us in, at least for a little while.” Her arm has snuck somewhere beneath his cloak, wrapped around his shoulder.

“There’s still some matters to resolve in the south. A mess of my own making.” He shivers and she instantly knows that he’s referring to the Dragon Queen.

“Don’t. You shouldn’t blame yourself for that. She would’ve done what she did no matter the circumstances.” He mustn’t feel guilty over this. Not when all he’s done is delayed the cataclysm she was always going to cause.

“Well, despite our casualties, we still have the largest army in Westeros. It’s our duty to use it wisely. To do what we can to defend the Kingdoms.” He mutters, face still mere inches away from hers.

“We will. But let’s first get to White Harbor before we start making plans such as that.”

“Aye. Let’s do that.” And with an ever so slight smile, he presses another kiss on her lips. It’s brief, but no less significant for it, especially not when afterwards, he’s looking at her as if she’s hung the moon up in the sky for him.

But as much as she might like too, they can’t stay here like that. They have a duty towards their people and every moment wasted is one where the cold and the hunger and the thirst can creep in.

“Right. I’ll go and find what’s left of our carpenters, see if we still have some wagons left.” She wills herself to let go of him, and is almost out of Jon’s embrace when he pulls her back in.

“Hey, wait. Before we go and be…rulers again. I just wanted to say…thank you. For being with me. For _staying_ with me. For believing in me.” His throat sounds constricted.

“I always have and I always will.” She whispers, giving him another smile.

They can rebuild.

They can repair.

This damage, whatever it is, holds no measure to the strength that lives within Winterfell. That will forever live there, even when the castle itself is long gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should apologize to JCJPINK, because they nailed the Bran plot in one go back in chapter 16, so I had to throw them off the scent. 
> 
> JCJ, if you're still reading: I'm really sorry about that!


	22. A Long Road

“Noooo!-” Shireen cries, falling down on the soft furs beneath her. “- Not again!”

Bran merely laughs at her.

“That’s what? Five now?” Arya, who is sitting next to her brother, snorts.

“Six actually.” Bran replies, picking up the cards to shuffle the deck once more. He’s clearly anticipating that Shireen is not done losing yet.

“Stop. It’s not funny.” She grumbles, pulling one of the blankets over her head. She’s sure that the two Stark siblings have more mockery to sling her way, but then, the wagon they’re in hits a bump in the road.

Arya groans and Bran hisses. And when Shireen carefully moves the blanket off her eyes, she can see that one is cradling her shoulder and the other is holding onto his chest.

There are two ways to go about this: She can try to comfort their pains and inadvertently remind them of what they’ve been through at the battle for Winterfell, or she can ignore their slight whimpers and return them to the matter at hand.

Or rather, the hand that matters.

“I don’t understand. You can’t use your three eyes to see my cards or the future anymore, so how do you keep winning like that?” She huffs.

“Oh, there’s a very good reason for that.” At least she’s got Arya to grin again.

“Don’t tell her.” Bran pleads, looking rather worried.

“Brother dear, she deserves to know the painful truth.” She tries to sit up ever so carefully, doing her best to not jostle her injured shoulder.

“No….please…?” He murmurs, hiding himself behind at least three pups. The coward.

But it’s too late, because they’ve already caught Shireen’s attention and she’s determined to hear what in the seven hells this is actually about.

“Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!”

“Alright, so, when Bran was younger, he’d play cards against our brothers. And Robb and Jon would always get the better of him. -” Arya starts. “- He’d get very mad every time he lost. And I mean, _every time._ ”

“Don’t say it.” Bran’s voice is muffled through Florian’s fur.

“So, in order to win, Bran came up with a brilliant strategy. And I know this, because I was the only one who helped him execute it.”

“What did you do…?” Shireen asks, because she’s starting to get an inkling of what’s going on here.

“We took _all_ the decks in Winterfell. Every one of them, and we marked them by taking little bits off of them, or scratching at the backs. Like this.” She carefully taps at a card that has a chipped off left corner.

“You cheater!” Shireen yells and gently smacks Bran’s good arm.

“No-one figured it out! Jon and Robb were so mad. They kept picking different decks to try and prove Bran was cheating but they didn’t realize we’d gotten them all.” Arya cackles.

“To be fair, eventually some new decks made their way to Winterfell.” Bran tries, but no, he’s not getting away with this.

“I am going to get a deck from _Dorne._ No! From Essos! And then you and I will play this game again, and I _will_ win. That’s a promise.” Shireen points her index finger at him, trying to remain stern even though she can feel the smile already spreading across her face.

Unbelievable.

And she thought he’d been using his magical powers to beat her. Instead, it’d been Bran, the _original_ Bran, who’d been playing her for a fool all along.

She picks up Florys and debates asking for Gendry’s horse. He can come and sit here again for a while. After all, they’ve been switching places for the past couple of days now. She’ll ride out with the rest of the caravan for a few hours while her cousin sits in here, watching over the two Stark siblings.

And while the cold and the dark are good incentives for her to stay behind the canvas of their wagon, safe and warm with the furs, the blankets and the pups, riding with the entirety of the armies and everyone who lived in and around Winterfell is an experience all on its own.

One that she actually quite cherishes. The long line of wagons filled with people, food and other necessities seems never-ending when you’re out there. For someone on horseback, the pace is rather slow, but those on foot need to be healthy and able to keep up.

It’d been an idea of Jon and Sansa. Which, Shireen is not sure when, but somewhere along the way _Jon_ and _Sansa_ have become _Jon_ and _Sansa._ The King in the North and the Lady of Winterfell have been noticeably inseparable since the battle. Not that she can blame them. Shireen has been keeping a sharp eye out for the people she cares about too. Bran, Arya and the pups when she’s in the wagon and Ser Davos, Gendry and Missandei when she’s out there, riding with the caravan.

And as if summoned by her name, there’s a quick rapping on the canvas that Shireen has learned to identify with Missandei.

She quickly shuffles up to the front of the wagon and peeks her head out through the opening.

“Do you have a deck of cards? From Essos preferably?”

“No. Sorry. I’m afraid I left all of mine in Meereen.” Missandei snickers.

“Oh, that’s a shame.” She sighs. Perhaps Gilly has a set from the Free Folk.

“I do have something else, though. Something I thought you might want to see.” She points towards the east and it’s as if something wakes up in Shireen. A part of her that has been slumbering for a too long a time now.

_Finally._

On the horizon there’s a very thin strip of sky that’s _not_ black. It’s a light kind of blue with an ever so slight hint of orange.

A sunrise.

“We’ve gone far enough south for the sun to rise again.” Shireen breathes.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Missandei smiles.

“Yeah…-” she mutters. “- Wait! Can we lift up the canvas on the backside of the wagon for a bit? Arya and Bran should see this too.”

Turns out that they definitely can, but they do need Gendry and Podrick’s help to do so. Well, they mostly need Podrick because Gendry won’t stop making cow-eyes at Arya. Apparently, according to Ser Jaime, she kissed him right before the battle and now neither of them seems sure of what to do with one another. Well, Gendry sure seemed to know what to do when he’d heard what had happened to her; rush to her side and basically cry a lot.

Shireen doesn’t hold that against him, but thinks it’s a little silly that they’re back to bickering now as if none of it has ever happened.

“Sit still, Arya.” He grumbles.

“I want to see it!”

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have gone and gotten yourself stabbed then. Now you’re stuck sitting on your bum waiting for everyone else to do the hard work.” He shakes his head, mouth quirked into a rueful smile.

“I didn’t just get myself stabbed, you arse! I fought the Night King himself and nearly won, bet you can’t say you ever have.” Arya shoots back.

“Keyword here being ‘nearly’, my lords and ladies.” Gendry deadpans.

“Does it count if I say that I defeated him?” Bran peeks through the small opening in the canvas.

“No, shut up. That wasn’t you.” Arya scoffs, but then Gendry finally has enough of the knots loosened to lift up a flap.

 He sticks his head through the gap and gives Arya a quick peck on the forehead.

“Just watch the sunrise, yeah.” 

 They actually end up doing that. Quietly for a change. Eyes fixed on the horizon, taking in the scenery while the pups scurry around them, lifting up their little heads and peaking curiously at the world around them. This is the farthest they’ve ever been from their home and Shireen wonders if they even remember what a sunrise looks like. They may have seen a few from their den, but after that, she doubts they’ve ever been taken outside during the daylight.

In the distance, she can see Rhaegal swoop past. Or maybe it’s Jon. He’s been warging into the dragon on and off these days to keep the creature from straying too far from the caravan. Too close to other settlements. Too close to innocent people.

Still, whichever of the two it is, even he seems relieved by the break of dawn.

It’s another little piece of life returned to them. Another tiny step towards the end of the Long Night that they’ve been living in.

* * *

 

Sansa hasn’t been to White Harbor in what feels like forever. They hadn’t been here when she and Jon were trying to rally the bannermen against Ramsay. House Manderly had staunchly remained neutral during that period.

A part of her wants to resent him for that, but he has proven to be such a valuable ally since that it would neither be productive nor fair to do so.

He had people to protect then and he’s more than willing to take them in now.

That will be more than enough atonement in and of itself.

And even if it weren't, he's been so thoroughly kind to Samwell's mother and sister that Sansa certainly cannot begrudge him his past hesitance.

She can see them now, from a distance. Gilly is hugging the sister while Sam is showing off their baby boy to his tearful mother. They look well, despite the hardship they've been through, and the reunion seems to be balm on the soul for all parties involved.

_Family. Duty. Honour._

There's a reason why her mother's house had put their words in that order.  It is truly what pulled them all out of the hells they’ve resided in. Even if the concept of 'family' seems to be an ever-shifting entity nowadays.

She's certainly had to take some time to consider it. Particularly on how Jon fits into it and how he doesn't. If she's truly honest with herself, he hasn't been a brother to her since she arrived at Castle Black. Instead been an ally, a friend, a protector and a protegee.

And then somehow, in his presence and in his absence, he became more.

“Are you sure about this?” She asks him.

“It has to be now. -” He nods, fingers gliding over the back of her hand. Out of sight, but still there. “-It was too dangerous before. They’ll understand that. But if I don’t tell them now, if I don’t give them the choice here when we have the time…I’ll lose them all.”

Sansa nods.

“I’ll gather them.”

That ought be her job, really. She’s the Lady of Winterfell, even if the castle itself isn’t inhabited now, it’s still _hers._ She’s the head of House Stark. She’s meant to be an example to the Bannermen. They are free to make their own decisions, of course, but historically, the Starks have their ear. Have always had it.

So, if the King in the North has something to say, it’s her job to make everyone else listen.

And so, she approaches a broadly smiling Lord Manderly.

“Lady Stark, I still believe that I am dreaming every time I see you. Oh, how much you’ve grown!” He’s in a good mood.

They all are. Despite the challenges of getting the population of Winterfell south, their victory over the Night King still reigns supreme. In the days since the battle, she’s heard music again. All along the caravan men and women had found themselves in possession of instruments. Ones that look like a Free Folk design.

The songs she’s been hearing, likewise, seems to have come from beyond the Wall.

Sansa understands their optimism very well, because after all, the weather, the journey and the scarce resources are still better than what most of these people have ever known. And thus, their days have been filled with at least a dozen variants of Bael the Bard, with Mag Mar Tun Doh Weg and Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun, with Hardhome and most surprisingly, with themselves.

There’s a scala of songs about the final battle against the dead. Some of them even mention her. Mostly alongside Arya, sometimes alongside Jon. She’s been told that Grey worm, in particular, has been a popular subject for the music. Something to do with his brave feats during the battle, sure, but also because of his clear-cut differences from his old allies.

The Free Folk songs that mention the Unsullied, _and so many do,_ describe them as a glorious example of people standing up and thinking for themselves.

If the songs mention Daenerys, it’s only as a cruel and petty subjugator. If they mention the Dothraki, then it’s as whimpering cowards and weak, shivering kneelers. Sansa thinks those are all a bit much, and can’t quite appreciate lady Mormont shouting their lyrics at the top of her lungs, but at the same time, she can’t bring herself to care much one way or another.  

No-one else seems to either. Not even Ser Jorah or Lord Tyrion have spoken out about them. They understand now, she thinks, or maybe they’re just wise enough to know that their comments won’t be met warmly.

Well, at least one advantage of being a part of the songs is that the Free Folk now actually _listen_ when she asks them something. Such as ‘come to the Fishfoot Yard, please’ and ‘Commander Snow is about to make an appeal’.

Not that they all fit on there.

Not even a quarter of their armies would. 

Instead, they make do with several representatives. Same as they would in the Great Hall. The leaders of the Northern Bannermen, the Free Folk, the Knights of the Vale, the Baratheon troops, and the Unsullied come together. They’re currently just mingling amongst one another, making small talk and showing each other what the other end of the caravan is doing.

Sansa quickly spots Brienne approaching her in the center, by the statue of the Merman. Ser Jaime and Tormund by her side. There’s…something… happening between the three of them. She’s not quite sure what. It’s in the way they dance around one another; Perfectly synchronized and oddly in place.

“How’s it looking?” Tormund asks Jaime.

“Not much different from yesterday, but coming along nicely.” He grins.

It’d been an ordeal, when the wound on Tormund’s chin had begun to fester. He’d struggled and resisted for as long as possible, but once the fever started to kick in, Ser Jaime had all but tied him down and shaved the beard off by himself. _One handed._

She doubts _anyone_ else would’ve had the boldness to try.

The wound has since healed quite nicely, and even the beard is slowly starting to make its return.

“My Lady.” Brienne greets and leaves her two men behind.

“Brienne, how are you today?” Sansa returns the sentiment.

“Happy.” It sounds as though she still can’t quite believe it.

“Truly now? Those two aren’t…they’re not too overwhelming?” Because Sansa can’t imagine ever wanting to spend _that_ much time with Tormund or Ser Jaime, let alone together.

“No. Actually. It’s surprisingly calming.” Brienne seems to consider her answer, but even as she says there’s an uptick on her lips that tells Sansa plenty of how she’s feeling.

“Good. That’s good. Just. Let me know if it ever isn’t. I’ll have something arranged.” She’s not sure what ‘something’ might entail, but for her Lady Knight, Sansa is willing to go from ‘an afternoon off’ to ‘a swift assassination’ and everything inbetween.

Brienne gives her a graceful nod.

There’s a commotion in the crowd, starting at the outside to her left and moving inwards. Which, Sansa’s got a very strong suspicion as to what this might mean, even if she can’t see it yet.

Sure enough, out from the sea of people steps Jon. He looks at the statue of the Merman behind her and then back at the crowd, and then once more at the statue.

“So, they need to see me. All of them.” It’s not as convenient as the Great Hall, but they’ll make do.

Brienne helps him get a boost up to the side of the statue, so Jon can stand on the stone wave that holds up the Merman. He has to grab a hold of its tail, though, so as to not fall off. It lifts him just enough above the crowd to see. Even if does put his cloak at a bit of an odd angle.

“Everyone!” He shouts, drawing their attention to him.

The crowd happily gives it, heads turning and a few people are even whooping.

“Thanks. Right! We’ve made it here! Against all odds, we’ve survived the dead first and the rough journey south!-”

They’re clapping now, and more cheering rises up.

“- I will forever be grateful for what any and all of you have done for the North. For Westeros. For this entire world. Regardless of what happens next. I wanted you to know that. –”

That, on the other hand, causes some murmurs. They’re starting to realize that this is something more than a victory celebration.

“- The first order of business now is our stay at White Harbor. Lord Manderly has already been kind enough to ensure that our women, our children, our elderly and our injured can stay until spring arrives. -”

The relief amongst the people is palpable. They’d feared that they might be put out in the cold again.

“- However, there are a great many of us. A lot of whom are very capable warriors. To them, I would propose that we march on. To Riverrun and maybe further towards Highgarden. It’ll take the burden off of White Harbor and will give the vulnerable amongst us more food, more beds, more blankets and a better chance to survive the winter. ”

There’s nodding amongst the bannermen, and the southern troops are more than eager to keep going for a little while longer. Even the Free Folk seem curious.

“However, there is a threat waiting for us in the South. -” Jon pauses briefly. “- Daenerys Targaryen has promised that she will come back to bend us to her will again. I don’t know what’s happened in King’s Landing. We haven’t received word from them. -”

He’s right, they haven’t. In fact, Lord Manderly tells them that it has been eerily quiet in the past few weeks, ever since the Dragon Queen rode south on her monster child. No letters. No merchants. No soldiers.

Nothing.

“- But I don’t intend to wait for her to come to us! -”

The Free Folk, the bannermen and even a few the unsullied begin to jeer at the prospect. They want her gone and are willing to lay down their lives for it.

“-So I would ask you to fight with me once again. We have defeated our enemy in the North and I have faith that with you, we will be able to defeat the one in the South as well!”

That earns him a wholehearted applause from the entire crowd. That, however, was also the easy part. The hard part is not losing them on what comes next.

“Before I do, though, before I ask one more impossible thing from you, I need to be honest to you. I have to treat you with the same openness and respect that you have treated me with! -”

Those words certainly grab their attention. What was once a roaring crowd now becomes a quiet, listening, audience again.

“- You all know that I’m a bastard. Plain as day, my name has been Snow for all my life and it is a name that I have no intention of abandoning yet. However, recently, _far too recently,_ I have learned that my parents were not who I believed them to be.”

Eyes are turning wide. Especially on the Bannermen and Sansa hold her head up high, keeps looking at Jon.

_An example to them all._

“The man who I called father is the man who I should have been calling uncle. -” His voice trembles. “- My mother…My mother was not unknown to you. She was not a lost southern love of Eddard Stark. My mother was Lyanna Stark, his sister.”

The crowd is talking amongst themselves once again. The Bannermen, the Knights of the Vale and the Baratheon troops are all trying to figure out what this means. The Free Folk and the Unsullied on the other hand are not affected by a lineage they’ve never heard of before.

“As most of you know, Lyanna Stark was stolen from us by a Targaryen prince. She was taken to a tower in Dorne and kept there while my grandfather and uncle suffered at the hands of another Targaryen. What you do not know, however, is that Rhaegar Targaryen did not just _steal_ my mother. He married her in secret. He put a child inside of her and then left her to die so he could fight his war with Robert Baratheon. -”

A silence descends again. It’s clear to everyone what happened now.    

“- That child is me. The records from Oldtown confirm it, Rhaegar Targaryen died with only one heir. And he was taken from Dorne to the North as Eddard Stark’s bastard son.” Jon swallows and waits for his people to respond.

“You’re the heir to the Iron Throne.” Tyrion blurts out. He’s standing at the front row, but everyone on the square has heard him.

“The Targaryens were overthrown by King Robert. Some of you may consider me the heir. Some of you may consider Shireen the heir. In the end, it hardly matters which one of us will sit in that godforsaken chair. -”

The Free Folk certainly agree with that.

“- What matters is that we care for one another. As brothers, as friends, as allies. That we, _together,_ decide what we may do. You chose me to be your king on the false presumption that I was Ned Stark’s son. So, now, I’m giving you the opportunity to choose again. To choose your leader like you chose me before. Name your king or queen and we will decide together who to follow and what to do next.”

The crowd is uncertain, whispers and conversations are going back and forth, but no-one it seems, is willing to put forth a name.

Well, _almost no-one._

Lady Lyanna Mormont steps forward. As she always has and, most likely, always will. Jon closes his eyes, awaiting the inevitable judgement.

“I once asked that someone might tell me why I should be following the orders of a Targaryen. Wasn’t given much of a reason then, so I suppose I’ll just be answering my own question now. -” She turns and looks at the crowd.

“- We should be following the orders of a Targaryen. But just _this Targaryen_ , because he led us to the greatest victory Westeros has known in thousands of years. He gave us back our independence, our future and our families.”

Her eyes drift to Ser Jorah, who gives her a quiet nod.

“So, you want me to give you a name? I’ll give you a name: Jon Snow, Son of a Stark, Commander of the Night’s Watch and King in the North!” Lyanna shouts.

And then bends down on one knee.

“King in the North!” Is the response from all over the crowd. and just like that, they follow the little Mormont of Bear island.

The entire square settles down on one knee. Even the Unsullied, even the Free Folk, they all do it. Even Sansa decides that now is the time to _follow_ the example of her bannermen and settles down on her knee by the statue, looking up at Jon, who is as moved as he is uncertain by their gesture.

But really, why did they ever doubt? They did not choose Jon for his heritage or his name or anything of a kind. They chose him, because he is one of them, because he will serve the realm rather than let the realm serve him.

And there is not a southern conqueror in Essos or Westeros who can defeat that.


	23. A Sudden Stop

It’s a rather funny thing, Shireen decides, how quickly a point of view can change when it’s placed in a new light.

For example, when they left Winterfell, they left there with no less than five armies, each wildly different from one another. The Northerners are not the Free Folk, the Baratheon troops are not the Knights of the Vale and the Unsullied are not like any of them at all.

But then they rode south.

And suddenly, once they passed the Twins, they were all northerners. The people living in the smaller villages of the Riverlands don’t see Free Folk or Unsullied or knights or bannermen, they see one huge Northern army marching south.

An army that is equipped to deal with the cold and the snow.

An army that has been rebuilding homes and storages.

An army that has no problem taking care of bandits or rogue hedge-knights.

And while the weeks have been steadily wandering away from them, word has spread around that the North has come to reinstate order in the South. Like a promise made to no-one, a duty borne from nothing but their own honour.

All of which is to say that Shireen is now a Northerner, Gilly is now a Northerner and even Missandei is now a Northerner.

The initial plan was for three of them to stay safely in White Harbor alongside Bran and a recovering Arya.

But hey protested. All of them. Loudly and without reprieve.

Shireen is officially the head of the Baratheon troops, and she refused to stay behind on those grounds. Gilly has seen and been through so much that she won’t abandon Samwell now, though she has left her son with the Tarly women in White Harbor. Missandei had fought in the battle for Winterfell herself, had been an archer during the siege and woe to the men who’d try to deny her a rightful place amongst them now.

Shireen had asked, of course, where she’d learned how to use a bow like that, she’d simply shrugged and said that she remembered enough of her father to remember the lessons he’d taught her.

Arya had been a bit of a complicated case, since everyone knows that she can fight well enough when in perfect health. She wasn’t in perfect health when they arrived in White Harbor though, had only just recovered from the fever and the lethargy of her injuries. Still, she’d sworn up and down that she’d be well enough to ride a horse before the army would set off on their journey.

She’d made good on the promise.

Sansa and Jon had tried to make the same argument for Bran. He’d have to stay behind because he was unable to ride a horse.

He’d agreed to that, but Shireen had seen the dangerous glint in his eyes and, sure enough, not a day later both he and Lord Tyrion had presented their rulers with the schematics for a specialized saddle.

Jon had cussed and grumbled but had relented to their clever plan eventually.

Not even the pups had been left at White Harbor. Although, that had been done with purpose, rather than because of their objections.

Because they’ve definitely outgrown the phase where they need to be carried around. Each and every one of them already reach up to Shireen’s hips, and they’re getting bigger every day. Plus, it wouldn’t be good form to leave behind such a large pack of unruly young direwolves when every one of the Starks was set to move on from White Harbor.

So, she’s got Florys happily trotting next to her, while Florian is up ahead with Bran and Tyrion. Ever since the saddle debacle, the two of them have been rekindling their odd friendship and even though Lord Tyrion is still rather broken up and withdrawn due to what happened with the Dragon Queen, he has been making quite some efforts to get along with the rest of them.

“Have you thought about what you will do after this?” Bran asks him, even though he can’t be entirely sure what ‘this’ is.

None of them are.

“Well, my initial plan was to join the Night’s Watch actually, but there’s not much point to guarding a wall with a giant gaping hole in it, now is there? So, I’m not entirely sure, really. I shan’t be serving at a court, in any case. I’ve done enough damage as is.” He sighs.

“Well, have you considered going to Oldtown? With your wits and love for books, you might make an excellent Maester.”

“Perhaps. It’s certainly crossed my mind. -” He hums. “- If I do, though, I’d have to settle some matters here first.”

Shireen sort of loses track of the conversation there, because there’s another village in the distance, and she’s rather curious as to how the people living there have been surviving during winter.

She spurs on her horse and navigates through the troops until she finds Ser Davos and Gendry at the front. Florys curiously follows her, instead of staying with her brother.

“Oh, there you are.” Ser Davos greets when she steers to ride next to him.

“Is that Fairmarket out there?” She asks him.

“No, that’s still quite a bit further down the Blue Fork. It’s probably just one of the hamlets for Oldstones.”

“The castle?”

‘Yes, it’s right there up on the hill.” He points towards the west and sure enough, if Shireen looks there, she can see its ruins in the distance.

“Rhaegal’s tied up!” Gendry comes riding up to her left. The task has become a familiar one, mostly because Jon insists on having the beast nailed to the ground and out of sight every time they camp near a settlement.

“Went well, then?” Ser Davos asks him.

“Sure did. Lord Snow? King Snow?…King Jon? The king?-” There’s been some debate regarding his title. “- Anyway, Jon didn’t even have to take over its mind to get it settled down. I think he sort of knows what’s going to happen nowadays.”

The sand of the road turns to cobblestones and the frozen grasses turn to small cottages. The atmosphere, though, isn’t like it was in the other villages.

There’s an oppressive silence lingering around the people, and the first soldiers are met with fearful and furtive glances. And yet, this town seems untouched by the hunger or the cold that has laid ruin to so many of the other settlements in the region.

“This is…” Gendry whispers, trying to avoid the attention of the townsfolk.

“Leave it be, my boy. Whatever happened here, I’m sure we’ll hear all about it soon enough. -” Ser Davos tells him, even as he’s helping Shireen off her horse. “- Best not go wandering off too far, though.”

Which, Shireen promises herself, and Ser Davos, that she won’t.

She really means to keep it. She does.

But then she rather sort of doesn’t.

It’s not strictly speaking her fault, or at least, that’s her reasoning. Because it’s not often that Shireen sees someone suffering from a similar affliction to that of her own. And well, once she spotted the woman in the crowd, she just really has to go off and see what it’s all about.

So, she ends up trying to catch up to her through the small pathways between the cottages, tries to dodge the Unsullied that are coming her way and even has to climb over a fence at some point to reach her.

“Ma’am?! Please wait! Hey, Ma’am!” She huffs.

Then, once she’s finally reached her, Shireen gently puts her hand on the woman’s arm.

The eyes that greet her next are haunted, fixed on some faraway place. Her face, now that she’s seen it up close, doesn’t have the marks of greyscale, but it is scarred almost beyond recognition.

“Oh, you poor child. Were you there too?” She reaches out and lets her spindly fingers run over Shireen’s cheek.

“I…Where?”

“Did the fires get to you too?” The woman murmurs, which, she can’t know about…? That’s not possible.

Right?

“What fire?”

“The fires of King’s Landing. Green and red. Screams and death.” The woman replies.

The Silence in the South, the reason why they haven’t heard anything, finally broken here, in this small little hamlet by the side of the river.

“Were you there?” Shireen’s not sure if the woman is even aware that they’re talking right now, she seems so far gone.

“Was I…? No, I couldn’t have been. Everyone who was is dead now. There was a wall. A great wall of flames coming towards us, coming to eat us alive. We ran and we ran and we ran but the fire just kept moving faster. All the way from Sow’s Horn to Fawnton. It’s all gone.”

_Gone._

That’s…

That simply isn’t possible.

Shireen’s breath stops in her throat.

The breadth of what she’s just described…It would mean that most of the Crownlands was hit by…by…

_Green and red._

_Wildfire and dragonfire._

“W-we have to go then. We have to help the people there!” That’s her family’s kingdom, a part of her home, a part of her responsibility.

A part of _her._

“What people? There are no more people. Nothing lives there. Nothing can. Only _monsters_ dwell there now, child.”

Only monsters?

Well then, Shireen supposes it’s a good thing that the Northern army has become very adept at defeating monsters.

* * *

 

It happens a few yards away from Sansa, right next to the horses that they’ve just come off of, and she has to hold in yet another sigh.

Bael nips at Jonquil’s ear and then playfully jumps away from his sister, who is already growling at him.

“Bael!” Sansa snaps.

He’s been at it all day again. First Rowan, then Shella, then briefly Florian and now Jonquil. Of course, rather than take the hint she gives him, their young black direwolf decides to jump straight back into his little game of irritation.

This time, he goes for the tail.

If he keeps this up, Jonquil, no matter how patient and calm, will strike back at him and that would be the _third time_ this week they’ve gotten into a fight _._

“Bael, stop it! I know what you’re doing!” When she takes two large steps towards him, Bael finally seems to understand that there might be repercussions to his actions and slinks off, yowling his dissatisfaction.

And that’s the creepy part about Bael; he’s sort of learned to imitate words. Not like a raven, obviously not, but when he scampers away, it almost sounds as if he’s saying “But I wasn’t…” In a whiny howl of a voice.

She wonders when he’ll grow out of this snotty behaviour, hopes it’s just a symptom of his youth, rather than an aspect of his personality.

Because sure enough, once he’s turned away from Jonquil, he sets his sights on poor Symeon. Which, it’s bad enough that he annoys his perceptive and headstrong siblings, but to put that on the one member of his family who can’t retaliate in same way is simply not acceptable.

And Sansa is not the only one who thinks so.

“Bael…” Jon’s voice warns, deceptively calm.

But he needn’t have bothered. Before Bael can even reach his brother, his uncle gracefully steps in. Ghost curls up his lip and the response is immediate.

The young wolf’s trajectory changes and within seconds he’s rolling down on the floor, looking up at Ghost as if to say ‘Who me? I wasn’t planning _anything_ ’. It’s remarkable really, how much he favours his uncle over every other member of the pack. Bael looks to Ghost for guidance, for attention and for the rules he so _desperately_ seems to need.

“Symeon. -” Sansa calls him over, because while the two brothers look a lot alike, Symeon is the sweetest, most innocent of the direwolves. He willingly goes to her and butts his head lovingly up against her thigh. “- Hello, darling. Pay no heed to your trying brother, he’ll not be staying with us tonight. I promise.”

Ever since leaving Winterfell, Sansa has been trying to keep all of the pups as close to her or her family as possible. Especially now that they’ve reached the age that Lady was when she lost her.

So, when they were on the road to White Harbor, she made sure they were snugly tucked away with Bran and Arya. When they were staying in the city itself, Florys and Florian had stayed with Bran while Shella and Rowan were with Arya.

Which meant that, while there, Sansa had Jonquil, Bael, Symeon _and_ Ghost lying on her bed. Now, it was a big bed, sure, but the growth spurt on the pups had made sure that there was less and less room for her every night.

Jon had been the one to put a halt to it.

 He’d told her in no uncertain terms that she couldn’t sleep with four bloody direwolves in a bed, no matter how nice and warm it was. Afterwards, he’d dragged both a reluctant Ghost and an enthusiastic Bael off to stay with him instead. 

Symeon and Jonquil for their part, seem quite alright with _not_ having their loud, obnoxious brother in bed.

“Careful now, or he might sneak in just to spite you.” Jon’s hand comes to rest at the small of her back.

It’s a lovely feeling, but it’s also…Well, dangerous, in a way. Not dangerous as in, there are two dragons living outside her home, but dangerous as in, it would be very unfortunate if someone were to see them and put a name to whatever it is that they have.

She’s not ready for names.

Neither is Jon.

“He might try. His sister will gleefully chase him off if he does. -” Sansa smiles, and deftly steps away from his touch, all the while wishing she could stay there. “- Have there been any more witnesses from the Crownlands?”

What a dreadful thing it is.

Caches of wildfire stacked underneath King’s Landing by an angry Targaryen king and then a spark of dragonfire by a vengeful Targaryen queen to light it all up.

 Half a million people, gone in an instant. She can scarcely imagine it. All the people she’d known during her years in the Red Keep are either with her now, or burned to ashes.

“No new ones. Not yet. But once we get to Riverrun, we can start looking for them in earnest.”

Ah, Riverrun. Her mother’s home. It’s more than that, though. It’s the heart of one of the most prosperous kingdoms in Westeros. The kingdom that still produces enough food to feed its people.

 More than enough, actually.

Because while she loathes to admit it, there’s a half a million mouths less to feed. The death of King’s Landing might mean the survival of the other kingdoms.

But no. Now is not a time of what ifs or maybe’s. They would’ve made do with or without King’s Landing. The fact that the Capital of Westeros has been destroyed is a travesty, no matter how you spin it.

It shouldn’t have happened and they’ll be damned if they don’t make sure it will never happen again.

“Good. I think I’ll retire to my -” She wants to say chambers, but it’s not actually a chamber. “- tent. I’ll be retiring there.”

Even as she says it, she finds her hand covertly reaching to his, gently holding it. She’ll allow herself this, just for now.

“I promised I’d help Arya find Shella.” Jon murmurs.

“She’s gone hunting again?” If it were up to Sansa, the pups would not be allowed to stray far enough from their camp to do that, but Shella is the only one who seems to keep finding ways to do so anyway.

“It would appear so. I pity the squirrels that were brave enough to come out today.” Jon grins.

“I swear to the Gods, those things _will_ give her indigestion.” She harrumphs.

“She’s a wolf, Sansa, she’ll be fine.”

Perhaps, but at least Jonquil has the decency to not even try _._

She shakes her head at him and squeezes his hand once more before letting go and retreating back to her current abode. The tent is large enough to fit in a bed and a small writing desk that she’s been making good use of. Letters, notes and maps are strewn all over it. Different lords, different cities and regions that have all been asking for their attention.

But there’s a new note waiting for her tonight.

 _It’s expensive paper,_ Sansa thinks while she’s letting her fingers run over it.  What’s far more striking, though, is the wax seal on top. Extravagant, deep red and in the shape of a lion.

“You can take the Lannister to the North, but you can’t bring the North to the Lannister…” she sighs, breaking the seal and opening the note.

It’s from Tyrion, evidently, asking her to have a drink with him at his tent after supper. Some important business he intends to settle with her in person.

Which, that’s fine. She can do that. It’s not like she has any other matters to attend to, and the pups will probably be outside playing for a while longer. So, she eats her meal in a blissful and quiet solitude, reading though the rest of the letters.

Afterwards, she wraps herself back into her cloak and heads outside. The camp is quiet at this time in the evening. Most of the men are still eating or settling in for their evening routines. They might be out and about later, but not for a little while yet.

Still, she’s most definitely not out here by herself, because halfway across the trek, she runs headlong into Jaime Lannister.

“Lady Stark.” He smiles. A smile, not a grin, though it took her a while to learn the difference with him.

“Oh, Ser Jaime. -” Her eyes drift towards his good hand, and what he’s holding in it. “- I see you got one too?”

“My brother. Asking me to come drink with him. Something of importance, but the dramatic twat neglects to mention what exactly.”

“Mine was much the same.” She nods.

“Shall I escort you then?” He relishes in this part of being a knight. Of being knightly. And after saving Arya’s life during battle for Winterfell, Sansa quietly allows herself to think of him as those knights from her story, even if it’s just a little bit.

“Please do.”

She links her arm with his, and for a moment they wander on quietly, but there is something Sansa had wished to talk to him about. Something she hasn’t quite found the words for.

“I did…I wanted to…offer you my condolences.”

“Ah.” Is the only thing he says.

“I hated Cersei, I’m not going to lie about that, but…I don’t hate you. Not anymore. And I think you should be allowed to mourn her. She was your sister after all…and well, more than that even.”

Which, as far as unconventional familial relations go, Sansa’s not sure she’s got much room to judge anymore.

Ser Jaime takes a deep breath.

“I don’t know that I can grieve over her. Not after everything that’s happened, but I am grieving for the child she was expecting. Our child.”

“I…I’m not sure…there are no words for that, are there?” Sansa is no parent, so she can hardly imagine what it must be like to lose a son or a daughter. Let alone four. 

“Eh, it’s the sentiment that matters, I suppose.” He shrugs, once more the picture of laconic charm.

_He must be hiding so much pain behind that particular mask._

It doesn’t take long after that to make it to Tyrion’s tent and neither of them feel the need to say anything, so they continue with a comfortable silence between them.

“Tyrion?” Ser Jaime says eventually, opening the tent flap as he does. Doesn’t bother knocking or announcing his presence before he goes. Sansa supposes that might be normal for a pair of brothers such as them.

There’s not much light in the tent. The one candle sitting at the table has nearly been burned down to a stump. That doesn’t seem like her former Lord Husband. She knows he enjoyed reading until the late hours of the night. A habit that generally requires a well-lit room.

“What in the…” Ser Jaime seems to have noticed her qualms as well.

She moves towards the centre of the tent, towards the chair at the head of the table, the one that’s not fitted neatly under it and the one whose back is faced towards them.

“Lord Tyrion?”

Perhaps he’s fallen asleep. It has been a trying couple of weeks, after all. She can see his small hand resting next to the carafe of wine. She reaches out to it and moves to stand in front of him.

_Cold._

Her hand instantly pulls back.

After that, her eyes adjust to the dim light and by the Gods how she wishes that they never did.

His face is bloated. Purple. Red streaks running down his bearded chin and cheeks.

She wants to scream, but the breath is caught in her throat.

“Tyrion?! -” Jaime is by her side within the blink of an eye. “- This…no. Not again. Not another one. -” His good hand shakes at Tyrion’s shoulder. “- No, you can’t be dead. You _cannot_ be! Do you hear me?! Not like this! Not like Joff!”

Sansa stumbles backwards, wants to get outside, wants to find Jon, tell him…tell him…

_Someone’s here._

Four hands grab her by the upper arms. Roughly drag her back to the maimed vision of what was once Tyrion.

Five other men, clad in Northern armour appear seemingly out of nowhere to attack Ser Jaime. He stumbles, and gets disarmed quickly.

Nevertheless, he struggles. Pushes against them. Roars and shoves at them. They still outnumber him. They still get the better of him. Slamming him up against the table, while his arms are grappled behind his back.

 Mouth covered by a white piece of linen.

And just as Sansa thinks of screaming again, she can feel cloth on her own lips too.

The smell is too strong. Too sweet. Dizzying even. Cloying up her nose and throat. The dark tent begins to close in on her. The grip on her arms becomes more and more unyielding and as the black spots begin to cloud over her vision, Sansa can hear one final voice, whispering somewhere in the distance.

“Congratulations, you have been summoned for an audience with the queen.”


	24. A Toxic Trap

Shireen wills herself to not close her eyes. She is a liege lady. An example to her army. So, she cannot look away and avert her gaze to the tent at large. She has to see the body for what it is.

_Terrifying._

It’s the first word that comes to mind. However, ‘disturbing’ and ‘awful’ are close behind it. She settles on terrifying, though. Now, a part of her thinks that she shouldn’t be this undone by the sight of it. Lord Tyrion has died, but so have many others. A third of her own bannermen didn’t make it out of the battle for Winterfell alive, and she’d mourned them just as she’ll mourn Lord Tyrion.

Still, it’s different.

It _feels_ different, because the bannermen died in battle. They died honestly and knowingly. It’d hurt her, no doubt, but this?

This feels like a strike at the heart of their army. Their people.

“The Strangler. -” Arya concludes, closing the eyes on the small body. “- This was definitely done by the Strangler poison.”

Lord Tyrion has been murdered in his own tent. The men in the surrounding six tents have had their throats slit and a note on Sansa’s desk indicates that she’d gone to see Tyrion after supper. Brienne had said that Ser Jaime had received a similar one.

It wasn’t until the early morning that their absence was noted. Two empty tents. Two direwolves lying on an unslept bed.

“The same one that killed King Joffrey?” Brienne asks, voice unsteady.

“Yes, indeed.” Varys confirms.

“They must’ve put in the wine.” Samwell sighs.

“Gods be damned!” Jon snarls, slamming a hand on the table. Shireen jumps at the noise, wholly without meaning to. Gendry’s back straightens at the shock. Thankfully, Ser Davos is there, gently giving both of them a pat on the shoulder

“What’s this?” Arya, and Shireen has no idea how she can stand to do it, pries between the fingers of a dead man’s clenched fist.

 Eventually, she manages to dig out a necklace. It’s gold, that much Shireen can tell and it’s got a pendant with a lion’s head on it. Varys is by Arya’s side in an instance, taking the necklace from her and holding it up into the light.

“I’ve seen this before. -” He muses. “- If I’m not mistaken, only two of these exist in the world. One of them was buried with Myrcella Baratheon. The second…Well, up until recently it was in possession of her mother.”

“Cersei.” Arya hisses.

“She survived. Why did _she_ have to survive?” Jon murmurs, burying his head in his hands.

“Cersei took Sansa and Ser Jaime?” Shireen looks to Ser Davos, who quietly nods.  

“She might not’ve. -” Arya breathes. “We…we have consider the fact that she might’ve just had her men kill them. Maybe not here to avoid suspicion, but…”

Jon is shaking his head. Not willing to believe it yet. And Shireen agrees. That would be too terrible. She can’t think about that actually having happened.

“With all due respect, Lady Stark. I don’t believe that to be likely.” Varys pipes up. 

“She wouldn’t kill Jaime.” Brienne agrees.

“That, certainly, but in her own way, Cersei favoured Sansa. Almost as if she were a daughter of her own. A child stolen from the North, if you will. -” He replies. “- Now, while I was told that she had some harsh words for her after Joffrey’s murder, she almost exclusively put the blame on her brother.”

“So, she murdered the one she hated the most and took the two she loved? That’s what you’re saying?” Arya seems sceptical.

“Cersei lost all of her children. Your sister is the only living relationship she has that comes even close to resembling that.”

“If she had them taken, where would she have them taken to? Because, you know, it’s obviously not King’s Landing.” Gendry asks, trying to hold onto a hope they all wish to keep.

“Casterly Rock. -” Jon replies, getting up from his seat. “- It’s the only place she’ll have allies left. I’ll take Rhaegal, take one of the armies. Go there and…”

“You’re going to burn it?!” Shireen can’t stop herself from speaking up. Not after what happened to King’s Landing. It’s bad enough that Daenerys went out and used her monsters to wreak havoc on Westeros.

But Jon…?

“I’m not going to burn anything. -” He puts his hand on her shoulder and looks her in the eye. “- I promise you that. The fastest way to get to Casterly Rock, to find them, to find _her_ is on the back of a dragon, but I will not stoop so low as to…I won’t.”

“Thank you.” Shireen’s heart settles slightly back into her chest again.

“Send word to Gulltown. -” He turns to Ser Davos. “- I’ve been told that we might have some friends in the Bay of Crabs. They might not make it all the way to Lannisport in time, but they can meet our troops in Riverrun.”

“Of course, your Grace.”

Jon still seems put off by that title, but he doesn’t linger on it today.

“As for him…” His eyes drift to poor Tyrion’s body.

“We’ll bury him. -” Gendry suggests, looking at Arya. “- At Oldstones. A marked grave at the sepulcher you told me about yesterday.”

“Thanks.” Jon nods.

And that seems to be it. He stalks out of the tent, Brienne goes with him while Samwell, Gendry and Arya stay behind to take the body to Oldstones.

Ser Davos steers her out as well, and Shireen thinks that Varys follows too, but doesn’t quite catch him doing so.

In either case, while Ser Davos goes of to write the message for Gulltown (and she’s still ever so proud that he does it all by himself) she lets her feet take her to Bran’s tent.

He’s been informed of his sister’s disappearance and his friend’s death of course, but he shouldn’t be alone right now.

It doesn’t seem right.

However, when she gets there, it becomes clear that he’s not been alone. Not quite anyway. While Bran is sat in his chair, all the seven direwolf pups are laid around him. Shella is chewing on…something, Rowan is asleep by her side. Bael is whining in the corner alongside a melancholic Jonquil and a silent Symeon, while Florys and Florian are sitting by his side. The latter of whom is currently licking at his hands.

“How are you?” Shireen asks, carefully shuffling closer while trying not to step on the pack.

“I…I don’t know.” He rests his forehead on top of Florian’s.

“We think she’s been taken by Cersei.” She blurts out, because there’s not exactly a great way to tell him.

“By Cersei…I thought she was dead.” He leans back in his chair, looking exhausted.

“We all did.”

“No, you don’t understand. If I was still the Three Eyed Raven. I’d have known. I would be able to see this coming before it would happen. I could’ve stopped Tyrion from dying.  I could tell you exactly where Sansa is now.” There’s frustration and regret laced in his voice. Which Shireen understands on some level. However, he’s not being entirely honest with himself.

“If you were still the Three Eyed Raven, then the Night King wouldn’t be dead. And if he hadn’t been, we would’ve all perished.” She carefully puts her hand on his.

It’s too easy to despair. Too easy to wish that things were different right now.

“Sansa has been through a lot and she’s survived it all. We will get her back and…And I don’t think Tyrion would see the logic in you blaming yourself for this.”

Bran swallows and turns over the palm of his hand to take hers in it.

“That’s probably true enough.”

“Jon has taken Rhaegal to find her and Ser Jaime at Casterly Rock. Arya and Gendry are going to bury Tyrion. Which means that you’re the only Stark here to keep the camp in order.”

“You’re here too.” He gives her a slight smile.

“Well, yes, I am but I’ve been told that Baratheons and Starks can get a lot more done together than they can apart.” Shireen shrugs.

“Then I don’t suppose there’s not much sense in me staying here and wallowing in self-pity, now is there?” He breathes in deeply, already squaring up for the world outside.

“I’d really rather you didn’t, no.” She nods. They can do this. It is their job to do this. Just as much as it’s been Jon and Sansa’s before.

* * *

 

She wakes up feeling nauseous and sore, and for a brief moment Sansa wonders if what she saw in Tyrion’s tent hadn’t all been a bad dream. An image conjured up by her overworked and exhausted mind.

But no.

These sorts of nightmares, Sansa has learned, are almost always real.

The strain on her arms is not an illusion. She’s chained up against a wall. The cold hard floor beneath her isn’t a mirage. They’ve really just sat her down there. And the woman standing by the only small strip of a window in the room is not a figment of her imagination.

“Good morning, little dove.” She throws back a swig of wine.

“Queen Cersei?” Sansa blinks, her old habits of curtesy kicking back in immediately.

“Not the queen you were expecting, dear?” Cersei huffs, putting down the goblet.

“No, actually, it is. I wouldn’t attribute this kind of cunning to Daenerys.” She shakes her head. No point in denying that.

Cersei snorts.

Which is good. An amused Cersei is safer than a cantankerous one.

There’s a groan coming from her right, and when Sansa looks up, she can see Ser Jaime, sitting next to her, chained up in much the same way.

“Hello brother. Good to have you back with me.”

He blinks twice, as if to make sure that what he’s seeing is real.

“You-” Jaime heaves. “- You monster! You murderous, black-hearted _whore_! You killed our brother! Our little brother! How could you!?”

He trashes and struggles against his bonds, trying to get to her despite them.

“And what of it?! He killed our father, he killed our mother and he _killed_ our son!” Cersei bites back. Crouching down as close as she can without getting into his reach.

“He did _not_ kill our mother and he did not kill Joff! You know damn well that he didn’t!” he shouts at her.

“Oh please, you don’t really believe that he was innocent, do you?” there’s a hint of laughter in the sneer.

“It was that old hag Olenna! I told you! She confessed, you stupid woman! And you…you wished the same horrifying death on _our brother_ as she did on _our son!_ ” There are tears rolling over Jaime’s cheeks freely.

“ _He was in on it!_ -” Cersei screams “- He was! I know he was! Surely, you’re not dumb enough to believe that it was just the Tyrells!”

She grabs a hold of his chin, pushes against his struggling, tied arms while he tries to kick at her legs.

“You’ve lost your mind! You’re as mad as Joffrey was!” He spits at her.

“At least I’m not a spineless, craven sycophant! If you were any sort of man then you would’ve kept your hand. You would’ve saved Myrcella!” The grip she has on his jawline turns to blooded scratches.

They go on and on and on like that, anger, wrath and insanity exploding violently from both of them and Sansa has to close her eyes against the onslaught. Wants to shut her ears from the harsh words.

She thought they loved one another.

Nothing seems to be less true.

They might be entangled in a way Sansa doesn’t think she’ll ever understand, but it’s not love. It’s a snare. A rope that ties them tighter together the more they struggle, the more they fight.

It’s horrifying.

“Oh, so who’s to blame for Tommen’s death, then? You made him so fucking miserable that he went willingly to escape your sick derangement!” Jaime bellows, and Sansa can’t under any circumstances imagine herself fighting with Jon, or Arya and Bran for that matter, like this. Blaming them for the deaths in their family. Destroying each other like Jaime and Cersei are trying to do.

“Yes, poor Tommen! He always did have your feeble temperament! -” Cersei snarls. “- But do tell me, did you enjoy your time in the North? Was it worth the price of your last surviving child?”

Her hand rests over her flat belly.

For a split second, Jaime’s face morphs from an incandescent rage to an unspeakable sadness.

It doesn’t last.

“What did you do!? _What did you do!?_ Look at me! _”_ his rampage returns with a violence.

“What did _I_ do? What the fuck were _you_ doing! We burned because of that Targaryen, because you couldn’t even eradicate the _vermin_ when you had the chance! _Euron_ had to drag my burning body from those hellish pits! _Qyburn_ had to put out a fire that refused to abate! Had to tell me that the treatment had been to brutal for an unborn child to survive! _Where were you!?_ ” Crying, Cersei pushes him back against the wall and slaps him.

Her words seem to drain the fight from Jaime, he slumps back and lets her have a go at him, again and again, until finally, she too, seems to have had her fill.

Cersei leaves not long after that. Doesn’t give Sansa another glance before she does. The silence that follows is deafening. Leaving her with nothing but the sound of her laboured breaths and the too fast beating of her heart.

She wants to ask Jaime if he’s alright.

Or at least, if he can come back from this.

Sansa decides that she would want him to. That she would need him too. Despite all the impossible conflicts raging within him.

This is the man who threw her brother from a tower. This is the man who saved her sister’s life.

It’s the man who loves his sister too much to care for the judgement of the gods and the people. The man who hates his sister so much that he’ll surely banish her to all the seven hells if he could.

He’s killed the king he swore to protect. He’s protected all the people who would rather see him dead.

Still, Sansa cannot bring herself to do it. To simply blurt out the question. Her mind is still reeling with what’s happened. She’s not entirely sure if the sweetsleep they dosed her with (and it _was_ sweetsleep, she’s sure of that) has lost its potency yet. Perhaps the heaviness of her limbs, the clouds in her head, are simply the symptoms of her violent abduction.

Hours pass. The light from small window begins to dim, eventually plunging them in darkness. She dozes off for a little while, either that or time begins to blur altogether.

The sun rises again.

Someone brings them food and water. It tastes disgusting, but she eats it anyway, because Sansa knows that hunger will do her no favours either.

Jaime refuses.

The guards make him anyway.

Another day passes like that. Darkness coming and going. Her arms have gone numb, but she can feel the rub of the metal shackles on her wrists.

They don’t see Cersei again.

When the guards come with food this time, Jaime slowly eats it.

Afterwards, when it’s just the two of them, he breaks the slow, destructive silence that’s been driving them both mad.

“This isn’t Casterly Rock.” He croaks out.

“It’s not?” Sansa replies, equally hoarse.

“The dungeons there are hidden below the earth. Carved out in empty mines. There are no windows like that.” He uses his good hand to point towards their only source of light.

“So, where are we, then?” Because if they’re not in Casterly Rock, then how will Jon know where to find them?

“I don’t know.”

 Panic claws at Sansa’s throat. They could be _anywhere_ in Westeros. Hells, they might not even _be_ in Westeros anymore. This could be Essos for all they know.

She refrains from asking Jaime what they’re meant to do now, now that no-one will be coming for them, because if he knew, he would’ve told her already.

A hundred different scenario’s play out in Sansa’s mind. Things that will happen or might happen to the army in her absence. Things that have happened in King’s Landing and how it will affect their chances to survive the winter. Situations that might help her escape, situations that will only set them back.

But at the end of it all, she keeps concluding that the only thing she can do right now is _nothing._

She cannot change her situation until her situation changes.

Something has to happen before she can set any sort of plan in motion. Someone else has to act first before she can.

And so, she waits.

She spends the days staring at the wall. Waiting for the sunlight to crawl from one end to the other, counting the bricks when she does it. She explores the edges of her confinement, of how long the chains on her shackles are. She stretches her legs and arms whenever she can.

She talks to Jaime. She talks to him a lot actually.

It starts off rather reserved. Functional. They discuss their current predicament in short sentences and few words sporadically. But inevitably in their boredom and in their desperation, they turn to talking about their pasts.

Superficial subjects, matters they largely already knew about one another. Describing situations that were worse than the one they find themselves in now. Not surprisingly, he names his capture at Robb’s hands. She names her time in King’s Landing.

That, obviously, leads to nowhere but more painful memories. To her mother. Her father. Jaime says that he barely remembers his own mother and wasn’t particularly close to his father, no matter how much attention Tywin Lannister lavished on him. Had hoped to do better with his own children, but never did in the end.

Despite the rift between them, between their families, Sansa finds his company soothing. The ordeal of being captured would be infinitely more difficult if she’d had to endure it by herself.

Besides that, it’s a given that while Cersei might be perfectly alright with leaving Sansa to rot in a cell, she’s always doomed to return to Jaime, to their ensnarement of one another.

And so, she finds herself opening her eyes one early morning, only to see the queen herself stare back at her.

The dress she’s wearing today is not quite as revealing as what she would wear at King’s Landing, but it is not the veritable armour of late either. A symptom of vulnerability, not meant to be seen by anyone. It shows the evidence of what Daenerys has done to her, because while her face and hands might not have been damaged, her arms and neck certainly have been. Thick, angry, pink webs raised up on her too tightly pulled skin with a too dark or a too white hue.

Sansa has seen a few of these injuries when questioning the survivors of the King’s Landing disaster, and can’t help but feel for Cersei. She knows that the scars are not without pain. That every movement must be causing the queen to suffer.

There are probably hundreds of people like her, all over the Reach, the Riverlands and the Stormlands.

“Stay quiet.” Her voice is not much more than a whisper, eyes drifting to Jaime.

He’s still asleep.

She must not want to wake him, and Sansa decides that it’s probably not worth the effort to kick up a storm over this.

So, she nods.

“Good girl. -” There’s an uptick on Cersei’s lip. “- Is he still mad at me?”

Hesitantly, Sansa nods again. Because Jaime’s rage hasn’t subsided in the least.

“He’ll come around, he always does.” The queen sighs, turns around, and picks up her goblet of wine from the table in the corner.

It is only now that Sansa can see the scars that she notes the unease with which Cersei moves. The pain must be unbearable to her.

“Are you hurting?” Sansa whispers. Not even sure if the words can be heard all the way across the room.

“Not so much. Well, it’s there. It’s _always_ there nowadays, but Qyburn has made me something for the pain.” She pulls an object from a pocket in her sleeve. A small bottle of ointment, as far as Sansa can tell. It’s placed on the table alongside the wine.

“She should never have used that dragon of hers like that. Never.” Even now, at the mercy of Cersei’s cruelty, Sansa genuinely cannot wish that fate upon anyone.

Of course, the truth also presents her with an opportunity. A change in the game. A chance to move her pieces.

“Hm, no. But her rotten and twisted kin never gave a damn about what they should or shouldn’t do either. So, I wouldn’t expect more from her. I know you’re too young to remember the mad king, but he was just like that too. As cruel and as stupid as she is, but less pretty in a dress.”

“Are you sure about that?” Sansa finds herself saying, delighting Cersei by playing along to her little game. The hint of a smile turns into a wide grin.

“I always knew it. That you’d turn out to be just like me. Vicious and proud of it. All of us are, at the end of it. Once we’ve been chained by our cruel husbands. By our uncaring parents. By our vicious people.” She takes another sip of the wine.

“By our fellow women.” Sansa holds out her wrists, scraped and bloodied by the shackles as they are.

“Ah yes, right you are. You always were a clever little thing, weren’t you? -” Cersei puts down her wine and takes a few firm strides towards her. “- Come here, then. Let me have a look at the damage.”

She has the key to the shackles, because of course she does, and once they come undone, Sansa simply cannot stop herself from sighing in relief.

“Much better, isn’t it? To be free.”

Not that Sansa _is_ free. She’s acutely aware of the fact that even she was to overpower Cersei here, there’s still an army of men standing between her and the gates out of this hellish place.

“Yes, thank you.” Still, it feels good to be able to stand. To be able to move in a way that she hasn’t done in days. Maybe even weeks.

Cersei glides towards the table and motions Sansa to follow her. She does, blinking against the bright light when she comes to stand in front of Cersei. In front of the small window.

“I thought it would be you. That’d you be the one she spoke of.” The queen carefully holds her wrists.

“Who?”

“That bitch, Maggy the Frog. A fortune teller. Or rather a misfortune teller, if you will. When I was young, I asked her when I would be wed to Rhaegar. She told me that would not wed a prince but a king. Told me that I would be queen. _‘Until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear’_ she said. I thought it was you. For so long, I thought you’d be the one to do it. And then _she_ came. With her dragons and her fire, destroying my home, my kingdoms. Taking my brother North. Taking my unborn babe from me.”

“Your child…your _children_ should not have died.” By which she is specifically talking about Myrcella, Tommen and the unborn one. Not Joffrey. But then, Sansa suspects Cersei knows that she does.

“Ah, my children. Do you know what she said about them? ‘ _Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds. And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you’_.” She opens her bottle of ointment, then puts some of it on her fingers and begins to rub it against the painful sores on Sansa’s wrists.

“I…I’m sorry. I…” she stutters, gaze briefly wandering from the stinging, oily substance on her wounds, to the window.

She can see it now, the outside world. Ever so far. Ever so nebulous. The sky is clear, it must early in the morning and the view is beautiful. She can see for miles, so they must be up high somewhere. Down below, Sansa spots a lake. It might be frozen over, it might not be, she can’t tell. Whichever it is, it looks alluring in her current predicament, ready to swum in. Or to be rowed to the small island in the middle. The one that is covered by a large bed of red leaves.

“Oh, don’t be, my dove. I looked it up, of course. That word; _valonqar_. It means little brother. I always knew that Tyrion would come and try to kill me. Before that woman even told me about it. He was just an animal like that. That’s why I did what I did. I strangled him before he could strangle me. No more little brother. No more death. No more prophecy. -” Cersei smiles, drawing Sansa’s eyes back to her.

“- I know what you’re thinking, of course: She has _another_ little brother. Sure enough, but he doesn’t have enough hands left to wrap around my throat. Took care of that conundrum all by himself.” The bored manner in which she speaks of Jaime’s impairment is disturbing. Perhaps even more so than her words about poor Tyrion’s death.

At least she hated him.

Jaime…

Well, Sansa isn’t quite sure what the two of them feel for one another anymore.

In either case, Cersei seems to be finished with treating Sansa, leading her back to the shackles by the wall once again.

“I do wish this wasn’t necessary. But you’ll understand why can’t take the risk. I might later. Once Jaime has improved his attitude, once I’ve taken the throne again. I’ll let you go, and it’ll be just like it used be. We’ll take walks in the garden. We’ll be dressed in fine silks and we’ll destroy anyone who tries to harm us.” Cersei’s hand strokes gently on her cheek, but her wrists are wrapped in chains all the same.

“Perhaps we will.” Sansa forces herself to smile. Continues to do so even after Cersei’s satisfied nod and after she takes her leave from their prison.

And even then, she cannot feel safe enough to stop smiling, to stop looking as content as possible in her current situation.

It’s not until about an hour later, or so Sansa guesses, that she allows the expression to droop from her face. And only because Jaime begins to wake up at that point.

“Cersei was here.” She tells him.

“Wh-what? And you didn’t wake me?” He mutters.

“She didn’t want me too.”

“Oh.” Is the only reply.

“She was in a good mood though. Let me out of the shackles for a bit.” She doesn’t look at him. Her mind is in a wholly different place.

“Good for you.” He grumbles, whether out of envy for her or wrath for his sister.

“I looked out the window. Saw a lake. And an island. It had trees on it.”

“So what?” Jaime doesn’t seem to understand the significance just yet.

“So, I know where we are. The lake is biggest I’ve ever seen. And trees were weirwood trees. It was the Isle of Faces, lying in Gods’s Eye.”

“That means…” Finally, he gets it.

“This is Harrenhal. We’re trapped in Harrenhal.”


	25. A Howling Aria

“Harrenhal is huge. This place is a labyrinth.”  There was a glimmer of hope in Jaime’s eyes at first, but it’s been dimmed again. Trapped by the idea that they are still captives here. That they are still virtually helpless.

“That just means that Cersei doesn’t have enough men to guard the whole castle.” Sansa shoots back.

“That may be so, but you can be sure that she has enough men at the gates. Enough to keep us. And no-one will be looking for us here, so we can’t expect help from outside either.” He groans.

“Not _yet._ No-one is looking for us here yet.”

“Right you are, I suppose we’ll just send them a raven, then?” Jaime snarks.

But that surely won’t be necessary, because there’s another way to reach her siblings. Even if they are several kingdoms away from her.

She takes a deep breath.

“I just…I just need to dream.”

Her thoughts are wandering now, flying off towards that place that lives between several existences. A place that neither she nor her siblings can describe, but one where they’ve all been before.

She has to concentrate. Has to keep away from the path that she knows. The path that leads her beyond the veil no living thing is meant to look.

She’s not searching for Lady today.

Dear, sweet Lady will not be able to help them in this.

In the back of her mind, she can still hear Jaime, but his words are nothing but distant echoes. She’s already elsewhere, and a different vision drifts before her.

Warmth. Comfort. Sadness. Family.

There are sounds around her, and Sansa really, truly has to focus on that before she can recognize voices. Before she can understand what is being said.

“There’s _nothing_ at Casterly Rock! Nothing at Lannisport!” Jon’s voice, he sounds agitated.

“There’s got to be something somewhere. They didn’t just fly off with the crows!” Tormund’s thick accent bleeds through.

“I bloody well know they didn’t.” Jon again.

“Perhaps they took them to Clegane Hall. Both brothers served Cersei at one point or another.” Brienne offers up and if Sansa looks towards her figure, she can see that she’s pointing at the table.

There must be a way to tell them. To let Jon know that they’re looking in the wrong direction.

The conversation moves forward, but Sansa can’t follow it, because there’s a big wet nose snuffling at her face. And then a tongue too.

Her first instinct is to bite at it, but when she turns to do just that, she comes face to face with her brother.

Eyes staring at nothing, a dark and silver fur adorning his face.

_Symeon._

He continues to snuffle and despite the fact that he cannot see her, Sansa knows that he can see _her._ The part of her that isn’t wolf. The part that doesn’t belong here.

He turns his head sideways, as if to ask her what she’s doing here, how she got here. She looks back at the table, at Jon and Tormund and Brienne. At the people she so desperately needs to reach.

This too, he seems to understand, even without sight.

Symeon licks her ear once more, before slinking past her, to his brother. Now, Bael is still sleeping peacefully when he gets there, but it’s clear that that’s not going to last for much longer. Because his brother’s ears are perked up and there’s a grin of very sharp teeth slowly inching closer to Bael’s tail.

And oh, such a good direwolf indeed. Because Bael will surely draw all the attention to himself once he’s bitten, which should give Sansa the free reign to do whatever she likes. To find a way to _talk._

She very carefully gets up, focussed on the table. That’s where the humans keep their plans. That’s what they’ll listen too.

Yes. This will work.

Once she’s in a good position, she gives Symeon a low growl, a call to arms, as it were.

Bael’s agonizing howl fills the tent mere seconds later.

“Bael, again? Really? -” Jon starts, moving towards the brothers.

He doesn’t notice her. None of them do. Not until she’s jumped up and on the table.

“Jonquil! What in the Seven Hells…get down from there!- ” Jon shouts, shock evident in his voice.

He’s too late, though. They all are. The corner of the large map is in her mouth and she can easily snatch it, before jumping down and running like the Stranger himself is chasing her. He’s not, of course, but everyone else is.

Not that they can keep up with her. Her wolf’s paws are much faster, her legs can carry her away far more easily than theirs can, and while she might be growing bigger every day, she’s still small enough to fit into the crooks and crannies of the nearby mill.

And it’s there, in the relative darkness, that she starts on the next part of her plan. The distasteful part.

With squinted eyes, she starts tearing at the edge of the map. Starts by gobbling up Dorne and the shores of Essos. The North and the Iron Islands. Bit by bit, they all disappear down her throat. The taste is quite frankly horrid, but she presses on. Swallowing down the Vale, the Crownlands and the Reach. All of it, until only the Riverlands are left.

She has to tear a bit more careful after that, to get rid of Maidenpool and Riverrun, but even they go down eventually.

There’s not much left. Just God’s Eye, the Island of Faces and of course, Harrenhal. Well, that, and her burgeoning nausea for eating all of that bloody parchment. But needs must sometimes.

That’s how Shella finds her, actually. Halfway to hacking the Seven Kingdoms back up, Harrenhal still carefully cradled between her paws.

And of course, wherever Shella goes…

“Here girl! Come on then.” Arya’s gentle voice cuts through the silence. She’s quite possibly one of the only humans to fit in the space where she’s hid herself. And to see her slip through one of the cracks in the walls is just such a relief that she briefly forgets she’s still coughing up bits of Westeros.

“You must be missing Sansa fiercely, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen you act so…” She pauses when she gets there. Sees the scrap of paper between her paws. Picks it up after a few nudges with a wet nose.

“What’s this?” Arya carefully studies the remainder of the map.

And then, then she finally does what she’s meant to do. She looks right into what are no doubt a pair of nebulous white eyes.

“Holy giant’s balls…Sansa?! Is that you in there? Is this where you are?” That’s it! She’s figured it out! Arya’s done it.

And that one realisation, that one point of hope is enough to cast off the line she’s laid. Her sister’s face begins to blur out of focus, words becoming a distant echo until they’re morphing into another voice.

Someone else completely.

Sansa blinks and coughs, trying to get rid of parchment that is no longer lodged in her throat. She looks up and instead of Arya, finds Ser Jaime staring back at her.

“Are you Starks ever going to be less creepy? Or is it just a family-wide trait?” He deadpans, but the disbelief is still drawn across his face.

“They know where we are. They’ll come and find us.” She sighs, exhausted and homesick. Even now, mere seconds after leaving Jonquil behind, she wants to go back. She wants to _be_ back. Just to be with her family and her friends again.

But that would be dangerous.

She’s already risked a lot by warging in the first place. If anyone had entered their cell before she was back in her own body, who knows what might’ve happened.

Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to poor Jaime to leave him here by himself. He wouldn’t do the same to her. Or at least, that’s what she hopes.

So, much as she may want to, Sansa does not return to Jonquil. She stays in Harrenhal, waiting for the plan to unfurl. For her family to come for her.

It’s not easy.

Perhaps even harder than sitting there and knowing that no-one is coming.

It’s difficult to not get anxious. To not make any rash or sudden decisions. They are on their way. Arya has convinced them. She has to believe that.

This part has to play out, even as the days crawl by.

And then, just like that, somewhere late on an unremarkable afternoon, Cersei comes stalking into the cell.

“How!?” She snarls, slamming the door behind her.

“Something amiss?” Jaime smirks.

“You think I don’t have spies?! You think that I didn’t know that there’s another one of those firebreathing _abominations_ flying around the Riverlands? You think that I didn’t know that the Stark bastard is out there crowning himself a Targaryen king!?”

“Well, I can rather guess one thing you _surely_ didn’t know.” The days of being captured have not broken Jaime’s spirit. If anything, they seem to have bolstered it.

“How did the bastard know you were here!?” She shrieks, grabbing Jaime by the throat.

“Divine providence for us? Exalted retribution for you? Sheer dumb luck for him? _Pick one._ ” He croaks, laughing through her attempts at hurting him.

“Oh, aren’t you just too smug for a _cripple_ in chains? Well, you might as well enjoy it, because it won’t last. It doesn’t matter how many armies or dragons they’ll send at me. I am my father’s daughter. The only child who truly has what it takes to be like him. I’ll defeat whatever comes my way, just as he did.” There’s an ugly grin on her face as she lets him go and turns towards Sansa instead.

And where the touches were kind and gentle before, they are now nothing like that. She grabs at Sansa’s hair, pulling her head upwards, before shouting at one of the guards in the hallway to come and release the shackles.

Before he does that, however, Cersei takes his dagger and puts it over Sansa’s neck.

“Don’t you ever think that Stark _mutt_ stands a chance against me! I’ll show him his bitch and you can bet that he will roll over at my command!”

Sansa tries to struggle, but despite her injuries, Cersei is still strong. Not to mention armed. And that’s how she drags her out of their cell, down the corridors and up several stairs. Guards always at her back.

And then, suddenly, the cold air greets her. She’s pushed through one more trapdoor and on the other side, she can see what feels like the entirety of the world.

The view stretches out before her and she can see woodlands, mountains and of course, the God’s Eye lake, right beneath the high tower they’re standing on.

On the surface of the water, Sansa can even see ships. A fleet of them. They must’ve sailed through blackwater rush to get here. What’s more, all the sails of the fleet are adorned with a kraken.

 _Theon._ Her mind almost dares to hope. It has to be. It must.

But that’s not all there is. By the side of the lake, near Harrenhal itself, a dragon circles. Must’ve been doing it for a while, because in one fluid motion it rises up and heads for the castle. For the tower.

The wind goes strong when it approaches. She might even think that it would try to land, but while it comes close enough to do so, it never quite dares to.

Because the rider on the back of the beast has seen Cersei. Has seen Sansa.

“Jon!” She shouts, even though she knows that Cersei will hear and take offense to it.

He’s just so close. She can see the way the gusts are lifting up his curls, the way his armor moves with Rhaegal, she can even see the frightened and worried look on his face.

_Ever so nearby and yet ever so far away._

The knife tightens against her neck.

“Remember, bastard! If you come any closer, if you let your troops approach or if you try to burn even the slightest inch of this castle, I will slit her pretty throat immediately!” Cersei roars over the noise of the wind.

He hesitates, she can tell. He wants to land. Wants to save her. But that won’t do either of them any good.

“Go! -” Sansa yells. “- Go! There’s no point!”

His heart disagrees.

But his mind seems realize the odds.

And with a sinking feeling in her stomach, Sansa watches as he steers Rhaegal away from them. Away from Harrenhal.

“Such a good girl.” Cersei hisses into her ear. Dragging her back to the trapdoor. Hiding her from the rest of the world once again.

Now, more than ever, the air inside feels stifling and it’s a battle between the walls coming at her and her heart trying to climb up her throat.

To be so close to getting out of here. To getting help. Only to end up back where she began. Cersei almost throws her on the floor and lets her men put the harsh shackles back on.

It hurts.

In so many ways.

Still, she manages to keep the tears at bay until Cersei and the last of her guards have left them. She just wants to be home again. In Winterfell, with her family.

She never wanted to leave in the first place.

Curse these cruel and uncaring gods for making her anyway.

Her eyes are blurring and her breaths are coming in shallow, halted gasps.

“They’re out there, Sansa. -” Jaime tries to tell her. “- They’ll come for us. Don’t you ever think that they won’t.”

She wants to shout at him. Tell him that she’s believed that for years and years and that no-one did. In the end, it was only Littlefinger who weaselled her out of King’s Landing and into a far worse mess.

But she can’t do it. Can’t bear to tell him that his hope is in vain. That they’ll have to put themselves back together again and come with another plan to escape.

By themselves.

But that’s something she has to postpone until the morning. Until she’s recovered from the idle wishes she’d been holding onto for the past weeks.

She’ll come up with something, surely, but not until she’s put the broken pieces of her heart somewhere safe again. Somewhere without hope.

Night falls slowly. The hours feel like years and the sunset might well last an entire season before the dark finally sets in.

It isn’t the Long Night, but to Sansa, it certainly feels like one of the longest she’s ever seen.

Or at least, it is up until the door to their cell opens again, and the darkness is replaced by candlelight.

It’s a servant. An old woman with a rat-like face. She puts down a candle on the table in the corner and then leaves again. Her absence doesn’t last long; she returns only a few moments later with a large silver platter.

On it a carafe and a goblet. She pours wine from one to the other and nods at herself.

A job well done.

 _Never mind the prisoners in the corner._ Sansa finds herself thinking.

Cersei enters next. Paying as little attention to the servant as she in turn did to Sansa and Jaime. Not that it matters, the servant slinks off, closing the door behind her. Leaving them once more alone with the queen herself.

“Mm, very sweet. What a fine wine. -” She smirks after taking the first sip. “- Well, I knew it would be a fine wine, because I picked it. For a special occasion, you see.”

“What is it? Did you finally lose the last vestiges of your soul to the madness?” Jaime deadpans. Trying to lure Cersei’s attention away Sansa and onto him.

“Good guess. But no, it’s a celebration, because I have just received word that the troops surrounding Harrenhal are retreating. The bastard king is going back North, back to Winterfell, tail tucked between his legs. And so here’s to him!” She laughs, raises her goblet and takes three large gulps of her drink afterwards.

 Sansa closes her eyes.

It is expected, of course. A retreat is tactical. It will allow them to regroup. To come up with another plan.

But it also means that she’ll be here for so much longer. Trapped again.

Even Jaime, in all his bravado, seems to have gone quiet. And that, obviously, has not gone without notice.

“What’s the matter? Nothing left to say? No more clever remarks? No more…” She pauses. Perhaps to mock, or to smile to herself. It doesn’t matter. She’s back at it not a breath later. “- No more little rebellions, huh? Well, then, I suppose we can go back to establishing our dynasty, our right to rule.”

The silence is enough for Sansa to look at her again. When she does, Cersei is leaning on the table, taking another sip of wine.

“This is…this is honestly more than any of us could hope for after…” She blinks.

Takes a deep breath.

Puts down the goblet.

“What in the Seven Hells…” She very slowly, unsteadily holds up her hand. To Sansa, and to Jaime, judging by the look on his face, there’s nothing out of the ordinary with it, but Cersei looks as though it’s been replaced with her brother’s golden one.

And then, without warning, she loses her footing and collapses onto the floor, knocking down the candle as she goes.

Without hope or despair Sansa finds herself watching the queen. Struggling to get up with nothing but the moonlight illuminating her.

“What did you do…?” She slurs, looking at Jaime.

But he doesn’t seem to have any words, gaping at her toiling form in the darkness. And it is a darkness. Because while the moon still shines upon them through the small window, the whole tower seems alive with an obscure blackness that Sansa cannot think to name.

The molten stones of Harrenhal seem alive with it. There’s the echoing sound of wine dripping onto the floor, there’s the scratching of impatient rats scurrying beneath it, there’s the sound of Cersei’s huffing form, trying to catch up to the present.

And then there’s the creaking of a door.

A set of keys slowly being turned in a lock.

“Help… -” the queen murmurs. There’s not much left of her voice. “- Help.”

When the door finally does open, shadows seem to dance from the hallway across the walls. They move to the rhythm of an unnatural song and if Sansa didn’t know any better, she’d think they were delighted at this turn of events.

A small figure steps out from darkness, and both Sansa’s heart and mind grind to a halt.

“Hello Cersei, -” Tyrion tells her, looking exactly the same way as he did that day when…when he was… “- I’m afraid it’s time for you to pay for your sins.”

 “No. No. It can’t be you!” She rasps.

“Tyrion?” Jaime asks at exactly the same moment.

But Tyrion doesn’t seem interested in his brother. Not in any of them. He stalks straight towards Cersei, leaning down so he can take a good, long look at her.

“This cannot be…You’re dead…you are dead.” Her eyes are wide with fear.

 “Perhaps I am. Perhaps that’s why I am here to remind you of who else is dead.” His voice is completely calm, even as he places a small hand on her throat. “- Now, now, don’t worry, dear sister, I’m not so cruel as to poison you. It’s only a bit of sweetsleep. Enough to calm you down a bit. Keep you at ease while we do this.”

“I killed you! This isn’t-” Cersei garbles.

“Yes. You did. Do you know who else you killed? -” He adds his second hand to his first. The reach probably wouldn’t be enough to circle all the way around her neck, but while she’s lain on the floor like that? He wouldn’t even have need of that. All he needs to do is just…press down.

“- Let’s start with the Sand Snakes, shall we? Revenge for Myrcella, I understand. But dead nonetheless. You made a brave attempt with the Greyjoys, but what is dead cannot die, so I can’t quite wish you ill will for them. But then there’s the rest. The Tyrells. Those poor people in the Sept.”

Cersei tries to fight back, but her feeble hands cannot take on her brother.

“Your own child, Tommen Baratheon. Although I suspect you might not have wanted that. He was your son, after all. You were less kind to your husband’s sons though. And his daughters. All of Robert Baratheon’s bastards. All but _one._ ”

Even in the moonlight, her lips are a strange blue colour.

“And then there’s your husband himself. You arranged his murder. And through that, you caused the death of Eddard Stark. Ned. Good, kind _Ned_ who had come to the south only maintain peace and order.”

The struggle seems to die down. She’s stopped wheezing and she’s stopped moving. There’s not much fight left in Cersei now.

“But it doesn’t even stop there. You didn’t just take him. You _insisted_ on his daughter’s direwolf. On her life. Simply because of a childish scuffle.”

And then something happens to Tyrion. His voice changes. It becomes less like his own. Less like the eloquent man Sansa knew and more like an agonizingly familiar figure from Sansa’s own past.

“You even killed _a child_ over that. You had your men hunt down Mycah and then murder him without respite. You _killed_ my friend, the butcher’s boy, you bitch.”

_The butcher’s boy._

A shiver runs down her spine. Because this is _not_ Tyrion. This is _not_ Jaime’s little brother. It is Sansa’s little sister instead.

A faceless assassin.

She’s never seen Arya use her ability to this extent, and if she has any choice in the matter, she hopes to never see it again.

“She’s dead. -” Tyrion whispers. “- She’s finally dead.”

He gets up slowly, and then something in the shadows change. His stature seems to shift and fade within their obscurity, becoming taller, becoming thinner until finally, the mask is taken off, and before them stands Arya, as herself, wholly and completely.

“Oh Gods…” Jaime mutters.

“Come on. I don’t think we have much time.” Quick as a cat, she pounces on them with a key, and undoes their shackles.

Sansa doesn’t need to be told twice and is up and in her sister’s arms within seconds.

“Thank you.” She breathes, even if Arya’s previous act is still playing out in her mind.

“You can thank me when we’re out of here.”

Jaime needs a bit more help to get up. Partially because he’s been sat here for all this time, even when Cersei came around to let Sansa walk freely for a bit. Mostly, though, Sansa thinks it’s because he needs to reaffirm his grip on their reality, on what just happened.

“I…I don’t…” he splutters, even as they help him get to the door.

“Wait. I just-” Arya starts. “- Maybe turn away and don’t look at this for a bit.”

She heads back towards Cersei’s body and Sansa, who can already guess what’s going to happen has _no problem_ with following that particular order. She steely stares ahead, at the frame of the door and at Jaime’s face.

Who _is_ gazing right at whatever Arya is doing, and doesn’t look away either. For however long it takes, he simply watches it.

“Tyrion killed her. -” He murmurs. “-Tyrion killed her, just like he killed him. Like father, like daughter.”

“You don’t have to look.” Sansa gently lifts his chin and moves it to face the door.

There is something like relief in his eyes, though. The permission to let this go. The permission to be free of the burden.

“There, let’s go.” Cersei’s voice comes from behind Sansa. It sounds like Arya’s cadence, certainly, but it’s still enough for her heart to skip a beat.

In fact, when the elegant and graceful likeness of Cersei passes her, she continually has to remind herself that this is _her sister_ and that she _needn’t run_ from her.

“A family wide trait, then.” Jaime mutters when they’re passing through the corridors of Harrenhal.

Their journey through the immense castle doesn’t last long. Or at least, it doesn’t feel that way. Perhaps time has condensed itself in this one very crucial point, this one moment wherein everything _must_ go right.

And much to Sansa’s astonishment, it does. They come across a few guards here and there, but no-one seems to bat an eye at the queen traipsing around with them.

Perhaps they don’t know that they’re prisoners.

Perhaps they do, but simply don’t want to invoke Cersei’s wrath.

Whatever the case, it’s easy enough to reach the small abandoned waterway by the side of the castle. The one where Arya already has a rowboat waiting for them. 

“There we are.” Gendry’s kind voice has never before sounded so comforting to Sansa.

Two pairs of hands gently help her into the boat, and it’s only once she’s there that she realizes who else has come to her rescue.

Again.

“Theon.”  She’d known. Of course it would be him. Of course he would survive. After his ordeal with Ramsay, Sansa’s willing to bet that he’d survive just about anything.  

“Hello. Thought I’d do a once over on saving you. Get it right this time.” He replies amicably, without a hint of uncertainty, wrapping her into a short hug before carefully helping her to sit in the back of the boat.

“You did get it right. The first time too.” She sniffles, settling back and wrapping her cloak around her.

Jaime, similarly, is helped on board, and so is Arya, though she doesn’t take off her disguise until they’re well away from shore and just about in the middle of the misty lake.

The mask comes off. The shadows twist and dance again. Even the clumsily put on dress has to make way for the attire she’s worn underneath it.

She dumps it all, everything that’s left of Cersei, in the deep, murky waters of God’s eye and none of them look back afterwards.

And it’s only once the last remains of her captor have sunken down into the depths that Sansa feels safe and secure enough to speak up about matters left untended to.

“Cersei said you’d gone to Winterfell. That the army had retreated.” It sounds ridiculous in hindsight. There’s nothing there for them right now. No food, no shelter, no warmth. It’d be suicide. 

“Yeah, because I told her that we were, while dressed up nicely as the commander of her army.” Arya snorts.

“Why?” Jaime asks.

“Had to get her to drink a lot of wine and gloat. This seemed like the quickest way.” Her sister shrugs.

“So everyone is still out there? Waiting for you to come back. Waiting for us to come back.” Oh, how wonderful that would be.

“Well, yes and no. They _definitely_ want you two back, but I don’t think anyone is expecting you to be.” Gendry replies, which doesn’t explain much of anything.

“What do you-”

“I may have neglected to mention my trip to the castle…to people. In general. Jon, mostly.” Arya tries to hide her words with a cough, while the boat quietly bumps up against the shore.

Gendry and Theon are up and about immediately, getting into the shallow water and dragging them to land.

“You _didn’t_ tell him!? What if he thinks that you’ve gone missing too!?” And wouldn’t that be dreadful to poor Jon. After everything he must’ve gone through while they were gone.

“Obviously it’s not _just_ me. I did tell some people! Gendry and Theon, for example.” Arya hops out too, and starts helping Jaime and Sansa to do the same.

“They were in the boat with us, Arya. They can’t tell anyone what’s happening.”

“Well, you know. We also -”

She doesn’t get a chance to finish whatever she was trying to say, because there’s a loud unapologetic shout coming from the distance.

“Sansa!” Shireen comes sprinting out from the mist and wraps her arms around Sansa.

Behind her, there’s a very relieved looking Tormund. Rather than to greet Sansa, though, he pulls Jaime against him, who gladly returns the gesture.

“We also told Shireen, and Bran. Tormund figured it out by himself. Not quite sure how.”

Sansa tries to give her sister a stern look, because why on _earth_ would they involve Shireen in this? She’s too young and too important to be let this near to that hellhole where Cersei captured her.

Still, she sort of fails, because it must be said that Shireen gives some _very good_ hugs. Real ones. Ones that feel honest and generous and innocent.

“I’m so glad you’re safe.”

“Me too. I’m glad you’re here.”

The camp, as it turns out, is not that far from where they came ashore. It’s only a short walk during which Sansa listens to Arya and Gendry bicker and watches as Jaime and Tormund still refuse to let go of one another.

Aside from being close by, the camp is also in an _absolute_ chaos. There are a men running around just about everywhere, gearing up and arming themselves for…well, for war.

Amidst the ruckus and the soldiers there’s this single spot that catches Sansa’s eye. This little bit of peace hidden amongst the pandemonium.

_Jon._

He’s standing there, talking to Ser Davos and Grey Worm, giving them orders of some kind. She’s not sure to what end.

“What’s going on?” She finds herself asking.

And just like that, the entire camp comes to a standstill.

Everyone seems to realize that the people they were trying to save are already with them. Knights, soldiers, bannermen, Unsullied and Free Folk, they all stop and stare.

The only one who is moving, is Jon. He’s dropped whatever he was holding, has no eyes for Ser Davos or Grey worm anymore and all he does is stalk forward. Towards Sansa.

Sansa, who doesn’t even have the time to move before he’s right in front of her. Giving her that _look._ That same one he gave her when he came back home, when they won the battle for Winterfell and when he was on the back of Rhaegal, wanting to come closer but unable to do so.

Well, he isn’t unable now.

No, instead he takes one deep breath and plunges forward. Pressing his lips against her, wrapping his arms around her and never, _never_ , letting go.

“You’re here.” He breathes eventually.

“Everyone is.” Sansa tells him, but her mind cannot begin to care about what the rest of the army must think of all this. Of their two rulers engaging in such behaviour.

None of that matters now.

She’s safe and she’s here and she will not ever leave this place again. No matter what anyone might say or try to do about.

_Home._

_Finally._

* * *

 

Riverrun is good place, Shireen has decided. It is sturdy and warm and it’s got these huge walls that would make it really hard for people to kidnap someone. Also, there’s plenty of hot, clean water available. Something Sansa should have whenever she needs and likes.

And she definitely needs it now.

Which is why Shireen pulls a soft cloth through a bowl of it, before gently dabbing it on those raw, red wrists.

Sansa scrunches her eyes shut for a brief moment, but then seemingly decides to shoulder through the pain.

“You don’t need to do this, you know, there are other people in the castle who can.” Her voice is soft, like she’s trying to get used to the sound of it again.

“I know. -” Shireen nods, carefully wetting the cloth again. “- but I want to do it anyway. You took care of me in the north, so now I take of you in the south.”

Her mind thinks back on all the dresses, the gloves, the scarfs, the warm mugs of milk and cider and the feeling of being welcomed and cared for.

Sansa should have that feeling again. She deserves it.

“Thank you.” She murmurs.

The wounds are worse than they ought to be, or so Sam and Maester Wolkan had told her. Sansa had said that Cersei had put some sort of ointment on it to make it feel better and both men had instantly bristled about what a terrible medicine it was. Beginner’s mistakes, they’d squawked, so many beginner’s mistakes! even a pupil would know not to give an oily, numbing substance like that to a patient. It might dampen the pain, but that it also damages the skin and tissue even further.

Cersei had been purposely injuring herself to stop feeling the pain.

Shireen’s sure there’s a metaphor in there somewhere, but she’s not exactly interested in trying to find out which exactly.

“It’s odd, you know.” Sansa’s eyes drift towards the window.

“What is?”

“Something Cersei said. I keep thinking about it. What do you know about prophecies?” She asks.

Shireen’s mind conjures up images of Melisandre whispering the insidious words of the Lord of Light in her father’s ear.

“Enough to know they rarely lead anywhere good.” Her hands move to put some clean linen around Sansa’s wrists.

“Cersei was told she would be queen until another one would come, younger and more beautiful, who would cast her down and take all that she held dear. And that all her children would die, with golden crowns and golden shrouds and then the Valonqar would choke the life from her. That’s what she said.” When she speaks of it, it’s almost as if Sansa is still there, still listening to Cersei.

“Scary.” Shireen scrunches up her nose.

“What’s scary is that it all really did happen…and…and I think it might’ve been me. That I’m the one who cast her down and took everything from her.” She sounds saddened by the idea.

“How so? You hadn’t seen her in years.” Shireen tries to listen and tie the bandage just tight enough at the same time.

“Yes, but it all started with me, didn’t it? If I hadn’t talked to Olenna about Joffrey, she would not’ve killed him. If I hadn’t fled, Tyrion would not’ve named Oberyn his champion, which meant that in turn, Myrcella would not’ve died by the hands of the Sand Snakes. Tyrion wouldn’t have killed Tywin Lannister. And if Joffrey had lived, Tommen would not’ve been king and the High Sparrow would not have taken control of him and the city. And if they hadn’t Cersei wouldn’t have destroyed the Sept and killed Margaery, and if Margaery hadn’t been dead, Tommen would not have jumped to his death either.” Sansa takes a deep breath, and for a moment Shireen thinks that might be all.

But then…

“- And if I hadn’t convinced Jon to fight for Winterfell, he wouldn’t have sought allies in the South and Jaime would not have left Cersei. Neither would Daenerys have gone back to burn King’s Landing, killing Cersei’s unborn child and destroying her home.”

“Well, that’s a lot of _if’s_ and _maybe’s_ in there. You couldn’t have known that any of that would happen.” Shireen replies.

“No. But it _did_ happen. It’s like a cascade of events, each causing the next and then the next and then the next. Cersei and Tyrion fought because of Joffrey’s death and she killed him for it. In turn, Arya brought him back to kill her. To be the Valonqar, the little brother.” Sansa murmurs.

“Or sister.” Shireen corrects her without thinking about it.

“What do you mean?” Something of Sansa returns to the here and now.

“Missandei has been teaching me some Valyrian. They don’t have words like man or woman, it’s all the same to them. So, Valar Dohaeris means all people must serve. Not all _men_ must serve. Valonqar doesn’t mean little brother, it would mean little sibling.” It’d been a bit of hassle, getting used to the neutrality of words like that, but Shireen thinks that ultimately, she rather likes it.

“A little sibling. Not necessarily Cersei’s. Valonqar could mean my younger sibling or her younger sibling or both at the same time.” That, if anything, sends Sansa further into her spiral of sadness.

“No. Hey. -” Shireen puts a hand on her shoulder. “- Everything you say comes back to other people too. Without Olenna, Joffrey wouldn’t have died. Without Jon, Jaime and Daenerys wouldn’t have gone north.”

“I suppose.” She doesn’t sound convinced yet.

“Look, all I know is that prophecies make people unhappy. Cersei, my father, Melisandre, they kept trying to get it right, kept trying to live by these weird words that ultimately don’t mean much.”

“But they do mean much, people live and die because of them.” Sansa replies.

“But just think, say you’re right, say that prophecies always predict what will happen. Then what’s the point in listening to them? It will happen whether you want to or not. And if prophecies are only true _because_ you’re listening to them, then the best way to avoid them, to walk your own road, is to forget they exist.”

“So, what you’re saying is…that either we can’t be saved by believing in prophecies or the only way to save ourselves is by not believing in prophecies.” Finally, the idea that this was not her fault seems to sink in with Sansa. Something in her shoulders begins to relax and she settles easier into her chair.

Which is good, the whole point of this is to make Sansa more comfortable in her mother’s home. A part of that is talking to her and tending to her wounds. Another part is making sure she’s able to forget the painful memories for a little while.

And Shireen reckons that also involves not having to look at her own bloody rags.

“I’m going to clean these. Don’t worry, I’ll be right over there.” She smiles and carries the bowl of water alongside the rags to the washing room that lies just behind the small chambers they’ve turned into Sansa’s solar.

It’s pretty convenient. Most things in Riverrun are. The servants make sure they’ve got clean water available wherever they need it. There are stone vases filled with it scattered across the castle, and Shireen only has to throw the contents of her small bowl out of the window before she can ladle some clean water in it and continue with cleaning the cloth and the bandages.

Her mother would scoff if she saw Shireen do work like this. Scrubbing at someone else’s linen like she’s a maid, but actually, she doesn’t mind. Especially not when it gives her a purpose like helping Sansa.

Still, it’s not exactly an easy job and while Shireen is perfectly capable of rubbing soap over the cloth, she rather wishes she’d learned how to do this better or faster.

Because at this rate, it’ll take a small eternity to get the stains out.

And because she’s so busy, Shireen completely misses the knock on the door when it comes. All she ends up hearing is Sansa’s delicate “Come in.”

Heavy footsteps thump on the wood, and from her little corner, Shireen can peak past the table she’s working at and through the doorway to see who it is that has entered the solar.

_Jon._

Of course it’s Jon.

Something like panic begins to take root in Shireen’s chest, because what she’s about to witness is no doubt a private moment. Sansa might not’ve forgotten her presence, but Shireen doubts she knows that she’s just in the next room, and Jon really only has eyes for his…well, she’s not quite sure what they are now.

Suitors?

Lovers?

Family?

Bethrothed?

All of those combined in one?

It makes sense, in a lot of ways. Especially now that they’re cousins, rather than brother and sister, but still, if this is confusing to Shireen, she can only imagine how odd it must’ve been for them. Or perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps they’ve always known, on some level, and the supposed end of the world merely brought it out in them.

Whatever it is, Shireen is about to see it happen, because _there’s no door from the washing room to the hallway._

The only way in and out is the door Jon just came through, and Shireen certainly can’t go that way _now._ Not while he’s wrapped around Sansa’s still-seated form. Not while he’s stroking his fingers through her red hair and kissing the top of her head.

Nope.

Shireen is just going to be here, scrubbing her cloths. _Quietly._

“How are you?” She can hear him say.

“I’m…very happy to be here.” Is the reply.

“Good. That’s…I’m glad. -” Jon croaks. “- We’ve secured all the entrances and the exits. No-one will be able to get to you again. I promise.”

“How is Ser Jaime?”

“He’s…I think he’s with Brienne and Tormund right now. He’s been wanting to go to Oldstones, to see his brother’s grave.” He murmurs.

“You buried Tyrion?” she can hear the relief in Sansa’s voice.

“Yes. It’s a good spot, or so I’ve been told, but we might want to mark it more clearly. Give him a resting place that suits him.”

“What about Theon? And his sister? How did they…?”

“Their uncle Euron had her. His fleet was out in the bay when Daenerys came and he escaped the fire there, but lost a lot of ships in the process. Once Theon arrived with his fleet, it was a certain victory on our end. Yara has agreed to aid us now, in winter, if we give the Iron Islands their sovereignty back.” Jon tells her, which, Shireen doesn’t quite understand who all of these people are, she’s only met Theon a few times, but she knows that the Iron Islands have been wanting independence for almost as long as the North has.

“Let them have it. There’s no point in trying to subjugate them when we might as well be trading with them.” Sansa sounds resolute about this.

“Trade? The Iron Islands?” Shireen can hear the amusement in Jon’s voice.

“The islands might not have much, but as far as I know, the Greyjoys have the biggest fleet in Westeros. Ships that can sail from Essos and back. Let them bring the goods we have to Essos and the goods we don’t have back to Westeros. They can sell whatever they have for profit.” It sounds like she’s been giving this quite some thought.

“There are merchant ships out there already, you know.” Jon offers.

“Not ones that can structurally defend themselves against the chaos on our shores and, if we’re to believe Missandei and Shireen, those of Essos.” Sansa retaliates.

“You want to turn a bunch of raiding pirates into a trader’s nation?” He still sounds sceptical.

“Why not? They’ve already turned themselves into a military fleet. I don’t see why they can’t make the change once more. Paying the iron price might sound impressive in theory, but you can hardly pay the gold one right now without ending up in some kind of assault too.”

“And if they can use their size and their reputation for violence to scare off lesser pirates…” Jon muses.

“There’s a lot of money to be made for them and a steady supply of goods for us.” Sansa finishes.

Given that they’re now strictly speaking business, Shireen feels safe enough to look away from her bowl and her cloths and towards the two of them.

Which, no.

That’s clearly a mistake on her part.

Because as it turns out, Jon and Sansa are perfectly capable of hashing out a future trade agreement while also being seconds away from kissing each other.

Sansa is no longer seated, but she is definitely still in Jon’s embrace. His arms are encircled around her hips and hers are comfortably laid over his shoulders. Their foreheads are held close together and while Sansa’s long hair obscures their faces, Shireen can make an educated _guess_ as to what is happening there.

 _Back to scrubbing. Definitely back to scrubbing._ She thinks while her cheeks are heating up, no doubt as red as a tomato.

“I wish I was only here to discuss the Greyjoys.” Jon sighs after a while.

“What is it?” Sansa replies, clearly worried.

“In order to find you…-” he starts slowly. “- I flew Rhaegal across the borders of several kingdoms. I’m afraid it may have…raised alarm all over the countryside.”

“They know we have a dragon.” She concludes.

“Yes. And if they know…”

“Daenerys probably knows too.” There’s an inevitability to the statement.

“That is our fear. And while she might be in the Crownlands now, if she sets out on dragonback to travel to the Riverlands, it would be another catastrophe in the making.” And Shireen wholeheartedly agrees with Jon there. There might not be wildfire hiding underneath the small villages they’ve travelled through, but a dragon is more than dangerous enough on its own. 

“You intend to keep her there.” Sansa replies.

“No, I intend to _defeat_ her there.” Jon shoots back.

“So, you’d have to go to her, then.” There’s a tremble in Sansa’s voice.

“I don’t want to go. In truth, I want to delay this for as long as possible.” He lets out a deep breath.

“You shouldn’t. I don’t want you to go either, but we are in control now. We know the stakes. It is as predictable as it will ever be. Who knows what surprises we might be facing a week, a month or a year from now.” As always, Sansa’s mind is immediately planning ahead.

“I know. No matter which way I look at it, I keep coming to the same conclusion too.”

They don’t speak for a moment after that, and Shireen guesses that they might be smothering one another in kisses again.

“You’d have to take the army. Most of it, anyway.” Sansa continues to tally up the numbers, though, undeterred by whatever they were doing.

“About half of it.  Daenerys only has that dragon and her Dothraki left. We can outnumber them easily.”

“That’s fortuitous. When do you intend to move out?”

“We can leave in two days. At first light.”

Shireen sneaks in another glance, and thank the gods, they’re not kissing anymore. Jon is carefully cradling her hands in his, though, looking at her as if he needs her to give the order, rather than the other way around.

 “Go, then. Let us be rid of all these godforsaken queens once and for all.” Sansa tells Jon. Giving him the permission he needs to go out and slay the monsters once more.


	26. A Song of Fire

It is a good day to ride out. The sun is shining, the sky is clear and while the cold is still present, as it always is nowadays, there’s no need to wear an extra cloak today.

So, if they do have to pick a moment to go to battle, Gendry thinks this might be as good as it gets.

Sure, he hasn’t completely acquainted himself with Riverrun’s forge yet, but there’ll be plenty of time for that afterwards.

And there will be an afterwards.

Of that he’s well sure.

They’ve gotten past the Night King and his army of the dead. One prissy lass with a flying lizard isn’t going to top that. Not by a longshot.

And yeah, she has an army, or so he’s been told, but he’s already been up against those tossers once, so sure, they can try again, but they’ll find themselves even more disadvantaged this time ‘round. Because they’ve got extra hands to help. Now, it may have taken him some time to warm up to the Unsullied, but at the end of the day, they turned out to be alright, hardworking sort of fellows. The kind that’s been a boon to them, rather than a burden.

“You think this will be strong enough?” Grey Worm shows him the tip of his spear where the wood meets the metal.

“Should be fine now. Wood’s durable, you know. Just because it’s a little blackened doesn’t mean it’s fragile, and we’ve already replaced the metal so…” Gendry lets his hand run over the bands that keep the weapon together.

“No problem?” Grey Worm asks.

“None whatsoever.” He grins.

“Will Arya come with us?” Gendry knows that Grey Worm and Arya are pretty close friends, mostly because they both spend more time than is healthy on the sparring grounds. Which is alright, so long as she occasionally comes in to _eat_ and _sleep_ and things like that.

“Nope, she’s staying with her sister. Missandei?” They’ve talked it over. As much as Arya wants to come with the troops and keep her cousin safe, after what happened in Harrenhal, she’s not going to let Sansa out of her sight any time soon.

Which is nice, because Gendry’s not sure if he’d feel good about going to battle knowing Arya might be in danger too. Not after what happened the last time. After all those hours sitting by her bedside, wondering if she’d be alright.

He’s sure that the instinct to protect her will wear down in a while. It’ll have to, knowing Arya. But for now, it’s just nice that he doesn’t have to deal with it.

“Missandei has had enough of war. I think. She loves the queen. She will not want to see her harmed.” Grey Worm replies and it makes sense, because Missandei never did strike him as the type who wanted to make a living of her archery skills.

Plus, there’s the whole handmaiden bit.

He nods, and then claps Grey Worm on the shoulder as a way of ending the conversation. They’ll see each other later, out on the roads.

There’s a much more important person to say goodbye to.

She’s standing a few feet away, talking to Gilly and to Brienne. Wishing the latter luck, no doubt. Because while Arya might be staying home for her sister, Brienne has agreed to come with them. Probably because Jaime insisted that _he_ should come too, regardless of what happened at Harrenhal.

Gendry does a valiant attempt at sneaking up on Arya, but as always, she turns around right when he wants to spook her.

As if she knows he’s been there all along.

“Hey, you got everything you need?” She lets her hand rest on his hip, right next to where his hammer is resting.

Not the war hammer, and not the _other_ proverbial hammer, but the one that he uses to tie Rhaegal down or set him loose again.

“Yep. I got my hammers, I got my horse and my armour.” He silently goes over the rest of the list once more in his head.

“Will you miss me?”  She flutters her eyelashes like some fancy lady and just like that he knows where she’s going with this.

“Nah. Not at all. I might not even come back, to be honest.” Gendry shrugs.

“Oh, great, so you’re just going to leave me to raise the child all by myself.” Arya has that playful twinkle in her eyes. Which she ought to have because uh, babies, they haven’t even done the whole…

Yeah.

They’ll get around to that once they’re married.

Which they’ll do once Gendry gets around to asking Jon if he can actually marry Arya. Or he could ask Sansa. He should probably ask Sansa. Sansa’s a better choice for that.

“It’s probably not even mine. Gods only know where you’ve been.” He grins.

Arya laughs and then plants her lips on his.

Two of his favourite things, one right after the other.

“You better stay safe out there.” Arya whispers afterwards.

“Only if you promise to be good while I’m gone.” He tells her while his heart is still trying to settle back into its regular rhythm.

“Never have been. Never will be.” She ruffles the hair behind his ear and then happily twirls around and sidles off into the shadows as she does.

_Right._

He nods.

Time to get on with things. He’s said his goodbye to Shireen this morning, who made him promise to be careful too, to not take any risks unless he had to and to watch over Ser Davos. She probably told Davos to watch over Gendry as well, but that’s beside the point.

The point is that it’s a bit weird, how many people he’s surrounded by these days. And not in the physical sense. Although, the forge has gotten more crowded, what with all the armies. But no, it’s more about how many people care about him and how many people he’s caring about.

It’s getting hard to keep track of them all.

Davos should be around here…somewhere. But Gendry doesn’t actually find him until they’re well out on the road.

He’s riding next to Jon, which makes sense, he might’ve guessed it. By their side is Tormund, who is talking loudly and exuberantly, in a way that makes Gendry suspect he’s covering up something.

Like his nerves for what will happen when they ride into what was once the Crownlands, but what is now known as the Deadlands.

“Wait, I don’t understand. -” Jon intercepts the rambling. “- So, last night, you were with Ser Jaime but you were also with Lady Brienne?”

“You better believe I was!” Tormund grins.

“And you laid with Ser Jaime…? Even though he’s a man, and it’s definitely not cold enough to make do with what we’ve got.” Jon splutters.

“Aye. He needed it. Besides, he’s prettier than any lass I’ve ever met.” There’s no shame in the man whatsoever.

“Guess there’s no accounting for taste.” Ser Davos murmurs.

“But Lady Brienne was there too? So, it was all of you…together?” The King in the North still seems puzzled.

“Well, they do say that the best things come in threes. -” Tormund snickers. “- And I can tell you that three things definitely came last night.”

Gendry groans.

Ser Davos sighs.

“You know what? I regret asking it. I really do.” Jon squeezes his eyes shut.

Tormund, meanwhile, just bellows out another loud laugh and rides up ahead, no doubt looking for his two paramours.

It goes on like that for the next few days. Tormund makes terrible jokes. Everyone but him regrets it. Brienne disapproves of it and then sends Jaime along to rein him in. Tormund is quiet and content for a while and then the whole thing starts all over again.

But then, out of nowhere, it starts to snow.

Or least, that’s what Gendry believes it to be at first. Small, white pieces floating on the cold wind, just drifting down, landing in his hair.

However, when he breathes in and catches some of in his mouth, it’s not cold at all, it doesn’t melt and tastes _nothing_ like the wet soggy snow he was used to up north.

“This isn’t snow.” Jaime Lannister growls, and then orders everyone, including Jon, to cover up their faces.

“What? What is it then?” Tormund asks.

“It’s ash.” Ser Jorah replies.

There are no more lewd jokes after that.

No laughter.

And no teasing.

The only thing that is there is a landscape that becomes more and more barren with every step they take. Everything is covered in a thick layer of white ash, and the only thing that truly stands out are the remains of some trees. Blackened, thin sticks left upright in an abandoned terrain.

There’s a smell too, something that doesn’t seem to belong with the scent of burned wood and grass. No, it’s different. Stronger than that. Enough to penetrate through the scarf resting on his nose and mouth.

Gendry’s never smelled it before, but it seems familiar somehow. When he asks Ser Jaime about it, the answer is…not what he expected it would be.

“You’ve lived in King’s Landing for most of your life, haven’t you?”

“Yes?”  Gendry replies, not sure where this is going.

“Then you’ve been inhaling this stench every day. That sweet, pungent scent in the air is wildfire, or whatever is left of it, anyway. On a hot afternoon in King’s Landing you could smell the sweat of it on the city gates, on the sept. Everywhere.” There’s a strain in his voice, like he can’t stand the thought of it.

And yeah, now that he thinks about, Gendry has to admit that it does remind him of exactly that, in a morbid, twisted kind of way.

“I bloody hate it.” Davos mutters, even as they ride into the ruins of what must’ve once been a village.

It’s not much more than a few walls and ditches scattered around here and there. But at least it’s some sort of structure. More than they’ve seen since arriving in this hell.

Gendry tries to imagine what might’ve once looked like, which city it actually is. Because it’s not Holdfast, they left that behind a while ago, and surely it can’t be Brindlewood yet, can it?

He doesn’t get much time to contemplate on the geographical properties much longer.

“Dragon!” One of the Unsullied shouts. Pointing at the sky above.

It’s not that Gendry doesn’t believe him, but…to him, there’s simply nothing there. Nothing to see through the clouds of ash.

Still, the Unsullied know the dragons better than anyone else and they’ve gotten a keen eye for spotting them in Essos.

There’s no reason to suggest they might be wrong now.

And so, the entire squadron starts to move into place. Horses are left abandoned. They can’t run as fast as dragon can fly, so it’s pointless to try and stay seated upon them.

“Get into those ditches. Dig them deeper if you must. Find cover behind the walls and don’t any of you dare to play a hero today! -” Ser Davos shouts before pulling him toward the side. “- Take the men east. To that big ruin over there.”

 “Where will you be?” Gendry asks.

“I’ll be helping our king to get to where he needs to go.” Davos rests a hand on his shoulder, the ring Gendry made for him prominently on display.

“Be careful.” He swallows, because Gendry’s never had a father, but if Davos won’t come back from this, well, then he’ll have to mourn one anyway.

“Don’t you worry. I’ve lived long enough to know when I have to stay out of trouble. You best try to do the same.”

Gendry nods. wills himself to turn around, and to sound as commandeering as Ser Davos did just now.

“With me!” He bellows.

The men seem confused for a second, but then…

_A roar._

Ear-splitting and wrathful.

That clears any sort of doubt, and the entirety of the troops fall in line behind him.

Another roar comes, and it’s not all what he’s gotten used to from Rhaegal. It’s a deeper voice, somehow. And perhaps he’s heard the big one make a noise on occasion, but it did not sound like this.

If Gendry had to put a name to it, he’d call it _vengeance._

The ruin Davos had pointed at turns out to be the remains of a Sept. The windows are still there, to some extent. It’s mostly holes in the walls, but they still contain bits of molten, coloured glass and lead.

“Prepare your bows and spears!” He shouts, because there’s no way that thing is going to land now, and they are most definitely not going to leave their cover to check.

Still, any sense of safety is well gone, because the entire left flank of the building has already crumbled. Probably in the Fires that came before them.

From his point of view, he can see Tormund and his Free Folk warriors actually _climb_ up the broken walls. They’ve got bow and arrow at the ready as well, but unlike Gendry, who’s looking to protect his men, the Free Folk are willing to go down in a blaze of glory.

They don’t have to wait long for it.

Fire rains down with hardly a warning. Two of the Folk are hit, but the others are able to strike immediately when the torrent is gone. The arrows bounce off. They always knew this was a possibility.

Another one of the Free Folk is snatched from the sky, disappearing in the big one’s jaws.

“They’re never going to last this way.” Gendry murmurs. Fearing the moment when the beast will swoop in once more.

“We need to distract it.” He tells a Buckler knight next to him.

“I…what?...But…-” The man’s eyes grow wide with fear.

There’s fire and screams on the other end of the battlefield and something immediately changes in his face.

“- Yes, sir.”

“Good. -” Gendry breathes in. They’ll need something that will attract the dragon’s attention. Something that will stand out in the white landscape “- Does anyone here have a flag?”

Turns out a lot of them do.

They’ve all been carrying the spotless, brand new banners for House Baratheon. A black field with a yellow stag.

“Right. That will probably do.”

It doesn’t take long to tie the cloth to the spears they’ve got with them. What takes longer is to decide when they’re going to start this mad run.

Just after it dives down, when it’s back on its way up. That’d be best. It’ll give them a chance to scatter properly.

“Boys! -” Gendry starts, realizing halfway through that he’s never given a rousing speech before in his life. “- Good luck and don’t be stupid.”

There, they can settle for that.

With a flag in his hand, and a heart that’s beating a mile a minute, Gendry sets off to run like his life depends on it.

Because it does.

It really, really, does.

His lungs are burning in his chest before long and he can _hear_ the beast behind him. Can feel the gusts of wind coming near and doesn’t dare to look back for his knights.

They’ve got their own path to take. Their flags will be the next target.

Then, there’s a hiss. That tell-tale sound he’s heard Rhaegal made a thousand times before. The sound that means it’s time to get the hell out of his way.

With a neck-breaking fall he lands arse-first into a ditch. The flames shoot over his head and it’s hotter than any forge he’s ever been in.

But it doesn’t last.

Within seconds the blaze is gone again. Gendry counts to ten, clutches the handle of his flag tightly to his chest and then with a prayer to the Seven, looks up out from his ditch. The dragon is rising up into the sky again, chasing after another one of the knights. Probably. Which means he’s not going to burn, at least not in the next ten seconds.

He climbs out of the ditch, and before he’s well and truly out, there are cheers behind him, coming from the walls.

The Free Folk survived.

It must be working.

_Davos is going to murder me for playing a hero._

The thought doesn’t stop him from going right back into the fray.

Because as it turns out, there’s a rhythm to this. A new sort of normal in the heat of the battle. Once one of them has to hide behind the walls or in a ditch to avoid the dragon, another pops up to draw its attention. There are a few times where Gendry even catches himself smiling after a particularly daring escape.

 _Everyone from Davos, to Shireen to Arya will want to murder me if I survive this._ He thinks when the shuffling of scales is loud enough to be heard behind him. The dragon must’ve landed to chase him in the labyrinth of ruins.

When he can smell the stench of burning meat, Gendry jumps to his left, against a wall and into a corner. From there he can only watch as the dragon’s large teeth narrowly pass him by.

The good side? He’s not been eaten.

The bad side? He can’t really go anywhere now. There are three ways out. One is in front of the dragon, which is not going to be an option for obvious reasons. The second one is behind the dragon, but Gendry’s seen what that tail and those hindlegs can do, and it’s deadly enough to want to avoid.

The third way out is _across_ from the dragon’s belly. The dragon who has just stuck its head down an archway and seems…caught there. Roaring and hissing while the structure is beginning to buckle under its struggle.

It might be possible.

It’s definitely stupid.

“Really? That’s the choice you all are giving me? -” He raises his eyes upwards, towards the gods. _Any gods._ “- Really?!”

No answer is forthcoming.

“Fine.”

Gendry drops his flag, briefly closes his eyes, takes five steps back and then takes that last, deep breath.

One foot after the other.

Five steps.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

A leap.

He slides down under the beast and hopes he’s going fast enough to be carried over the ashes onto the other side. For the briefest of seconds, when he watches the scales pass over him, he debates touching them.

Then, he slows down. Too soon. Too far from the other side of the monster.

Suddenly, he can see the scales move, rather than he. It’s too low to the ground here, he can’t crawl on his back, neither forwards nor backwards.

He’s trapped.

But, no, not quite yet.

There’s a tug on his one leg. And then another one on his other.

Someone is holding him and they’re not letting go. Pulling him out from underneath the monster. In the span of a single breath, he can see the sky again.

The next, he’s being pushed into another ditch.

Flames blaze over him and his saviours, but can’t hit them where they are.

“You fixed my spear. I owed you this.” Grey Worm appears on his left.

“Thank you.” Gendry huffs.

“No problem?” he shrugs, as if doing a bit of handywork is equal to facing down a dragon.

Small wonder everyone keeps making up songs about this man.

“None whatsoever.” He smiles back.

“I always knew you were an idiot.” A grinning Tormund tells him from the other side, handing him one of the Baratheon banners.

And somehow, his thoughts drift towards his House. To his foolish and fat father. To the last war he’d ever fought.

“Well, fighting dragons is what my family does.”

_Ours is the fury, right?_

Tormund laughs, and he pulls another arrow from his quiver. Much to Gendry’s surprise, it doesn’t actually have a tip. Just a little cloth bag of…something tied to the top.

“What? You didn’t think we were trying to hit that thing with little steel pins, now were you?” Tormund scoffs.

“I…actually rather was.” He replies, moving in closer to study the contraption.

“Best not, lad. There’s some nasty stuff in there. If it’s meant to slow down a dragon on touch, what do you think it’ll do to you?”

Gendry instantly moves back.

“I’m surprised you didn’t know. After all, your Stark girlie was the one who made the contents.” He quirks an eyebrow.

“Of course she did. -” Because only Arya would aspire to poison a _bloody_ dragon. “- is it working?”

“I don’t know. Do they usually get stuck in doorways like that?” Tormund turns to Grey Worm.

“He never has before. Even without the Qu…Its mother, Drogon is agile.” And that’s another thing they’ve all noticed; the dragon is alone. No Daenerys on his back, no horde of Dothraki following it in battle.

Just the dragon.

Gendry carefully peeks out over the edge of his ditch.

The big one is flying now, and he can’t tell if its going slower or not. It’s certainly shuffling around a lot more, biting randomly at the Baratheon flag-bearers around it. However, while Gendry’s eyes are fixed on the dragon, it seems to be distracted by something other than the humans riling it up.

Its long neck and head are turned upwards.

And then, without warning, it takes off.

There’s another roar. Not him.

“Well, look who’s finally gotten his arse saddled up.” He murmurs and sure enough, Rhaegal comes flying overhead, already chased by Drogon.

What happens next looks like some sort of intricate dance. The way both beasts fly around each other, dipping down and vaulting upwards with snapping jaws and razor-sharp talons.

He’d never seen this in back at Winterfell, the sky had been too black, the night too dark to make out anything past the barest shapes of them. He’d seen the aftermath, sure, but not the fight itself.

And that was Rhaegal against the smallest, dead dragon.

This behemoth is a whole other story.

Whatever poison the Free Folk shot at him, it doesn’t compare to the armour weighing Rhaegal down. Which, being slow and strong wasn’t an issue against the undead dragon. In fact, it was an advantage.

But the big brother seems to be stronger even without an armour, and since there are no deadly spears thrown at Rhaegal, Gendry wagers he’d be better off without it.

The first blood is at the tail, the big one chomps off the end, but it gives Rhaegal a change to retaliate, he manages to tear a chunk out of the big one’s leg.

He quickly lets go though, swooping down. His brother follows and they narrowly avoid the ground like that before Rhaegal starts an ascent that goes up so high that they briefly disappear into the clouds. All that is visible of them at this point is the orange of their flames.

The descent that comes after is equally violent. Rhaegal is no longer flying, but on his back, spiralling down in a freefall. The big one chases him but cannot go down fast enough with its wings out. He gives up eventually, no doubt sure that his younger sibling will drop to its death.

However, at the very last possible moment, Rhaegal flips over and turns his drop into a soaring drift right over the ruins. This has to be Jon’s doing. No way a creature like that could come up with such a ridiculous stunt.

The men cheer and this certainly puts some much-needed distance between the beasts, but the battle isn’t over yet. The big one is in pursuit and gaining ground quickly. Furthermore, Gendry’s not sure how long Rhaegal can keep pulling off tricks like this.

At least during the battle for Winterfell, both dragons would land occasionally, giving Rhaegal a brief respite from the weight of his armour. Which isn’t helping now.

Or perhaps it is in some twisted way, because the big dragon has caught up and starts tearing up Rhaegal’s right wing. The thin skin there easily gives way, destabilizing Rhaegal and incapacitating his ability to fly. But rather than give up, Rhaegal digs all of his talons straight into his brother’s belly and shoulders, tying them together, leaving one dragon to essentially fly for two _as well as the armour._

And that really sends them both plummeting towards the earth.

However, this new position also puts Rhaegal in a very dangerous place, because the big one is trying his utmost to wrest itself free from its brother’s hold, using his large endless rows of teeth to do it. He bites down right between the part where Rhaegal’s neck ends and where his back begins.

A vital spot. The beast roars in pain, but the men below are worried for a wholly different reason, Because that place? That’s where the rider sits.

 “Jon! Did anyone see…-” Gendry splutters. “- did it get Jon? Did anyone see?”

Tormund looks equally worried, but is shaking his head. Not even Jorah or any of the Unsullied can tell from this distance.

All they can see is that Rhaegal is still alive and that once his brother has thrown its head upwards, he fights back by locking his teeth around the other one’s lower jaw. Another painful howl, this time from the big one, who starts using his wings to try and get away, to try and soar to safety, even while his brother is still lodged around him in several places.

A few men try to give chase, but it’s useless, with or without horse, the creature is too fast and disappears from their view not long afterwards. Leaving them all stunned and unsure.

“Gather the dead, and the wounded. -” Brienne speaks up. “- There’s no point in standing here and staring at the sky. We’ve got work to do.”

Everyone murmurs and set themselves upon the jobs Brienne orders them to do. She herself then quickly turns back towards an ashen faced Jaime. He’s not injured as far as Gendry can tell, but has clearly suffered more under the battle than most.

In fact, he’s in such bad shape that Brienne has to sit him down against a wall and has to help him do something as simple as _breathing._

Tormund looks as though he might want to go and be with them, to comfort them both, but his duties lie with his people first. And so, he ends up making small campfires alongside Gendry.

Gendry, who’s eyes are skating across the troops, trying to find any sign of Ser Davos, any inkling of where he might be. He’s not amongst the dead, that much Gendry had checked first, but he’s nowhere else to be found either.

In the end, it takes another hour before anyone catches a glimpse of him. Which, it’s not exactly a glimpse so much as that he comes _riding into camp_ on a horse.

Next to him sits an even more surprising presence.

“My king?” Ser Jorah blinks, giving voice to Gendry’s confusion, who follows it up with:

“Wait, you were just up there and now you’re…?”

Jon nods and then unmounts with all the subtly and stability of a drunk knight. He looks exhausted and his hair is matted with sweat.

“We rode as far and as fast as we could, but weren’t able to make it to Rhaegal in time for the king to ride him. So, this one figured he’d do the next best thing.” Ser Davos mutters, giving Jon some careful glances.

“You were in his head again, weren’t you?” Gendry asks Jon, walking alongside the two of them.

“Aye.”

“So you felt it when the big one…when it…?” He motions to the back of his neck.

“I did. -” Jon croaks, while both Davos and Gendry help him to sit down. “- I felt it all.”

“Do you know where he is now?” Ser Jorah tries, handing his king a piece of bread, who gracefully declines.

“No. Not really. I can’t seem to get back to him. It’s like he’s dreaming or…or hidden somewhere too far away for me to go.” He looks towards the south-east, towards where the dragons were last seen flying.

Towards King’s landing.

“So, are we heading that way tomorrow?” Because the sun is well on its way to setting and now that all the excitement has died down, it is getting rather chilly.

“Yes, we are.”

“Then I’d best go and make sure we’re all ready to go.” He claps Jon on the shoulders and leaves him in the care of Sam and Jorah. A maester and a northerner; They’ll know how to take care of him, probably better than anyone else here.

Besides, Gendry would really like to find his horse. The men have already gathered them somewhere near the ruins of the sept. Mostly because he’d like to know if its alive, but also because there’s a cloak in one of the saddlebags that’ll keep him warm tonight.

When he gets to their makeshift stables, though, Ser Davos is there. He’s talking to a few of the men and has a black, slightly ravaged, piece of cloth in his hand. If Gendry looks close enough, he can see bits of a yellow stag hiding in the ripples of the fabric.

“So, the men tell me you’ve had an interesting afternoon as well?” There’s an absolutely lethal glare on his face.

“Uh…” Gendry starts.

This is going to be less fun than facing off against that dragon, isn’t it?

* * *

 

The further they move into these godforsaken lands, the more Jon finds himself turning inwards. Away from the world. Away from what he has to look upon. Away from this horrific legacy he’s now inherited.

_The Conquest of Aegon_

_The Dance of the Dragons._

_The Doom of Valyria._

If all his worst nightmares about what that may have looked like would come to life and mesh themselves into one place, he’d imagine it to look something like this.

Utter and complete destruction.

A part of him wants to revolt, wants to deny any and all relation to the monsters that made all of this possible, but another part of him knows that that would be an even bigger lie than the fealty he swore to Daenerys Targaryen.

He’s always wanted to know who he was, truly, wholly. So now he does. It’d be craven to try and turn back from that.

And if he feels any shame over it, then that will only be a fraction of the justice every departed soul in the Crownlands deserves.

Jon will give them more than a fraction, though.

That much he promises them.

Because beyond the shame and the horror, there is anger. So much bloody anger that his heart is almost out of places to keep it.

_How dare they?_

These ancestors of him, the kin that he’s been thrown to.

How dare they think that their lust for blood is worth more than those lives? How dare they take what does not belong to them? How dare they hide the seven green hells beneath the feet of everyone in the capital? How dare they take a dragon and ruthlessly enact their own wrath upon them?

But no, those thoughts won’t do him any good.

Jon isn’t the Mad King Aerys or Daenerys, he won’t let his rage take control of him. And if he must be a Targaryen, then he’ll take his example from the only one who was ever a part of his family.

_Maester Aemon._

A brother of the Night’s Watch and in truth, a grandfather to them all.

He’d reined Jon in when he was about to let his emotions get the better of him, when he was about to do something incredibly stupid and something that would’ve not only cost him his life, but quite possibly the war against the dead.

And regardless of everything else, that is not something Jon feels he has the luxury to forget.

The North is safe now.

His family, his people, are safe.

The steps he’s had to take to get to this point are as vital and as important as the bricks that make up the kingsroad. Which, against all odds, has survived the destruction marring everything else around it.

That road will take him to the heart of this ungodly battlefield, but once he’s done what he needs to do, he’ll follow those same cobblestones to get out of here, to get to the place where his mind is lingering.

He might not be able to reach Rhaegal now, but Ghost is still very much there in a quiet corner of his head. Whenever he closes his eyes, he has to keep himself from warging back to Riverrun, back to the warm bed that belongs to Sansa, to the soft songs she hums when she’s brushing Jonquil’s fur, and to the scoffs she gives Bael whenever he’s being loud.

Now more than ever, Ghost brings him closer to a family he will proudly call his own. A family he’d always wanted but had never dared to dream for.

A part of his blood might belong to House Targaryen, but his heart, his soul and almost everything else belongs to House Stark.

And he’ll do whatever is necessary to protect them.

To make sure that whatever happened to the people of King’s Landing will not happen to them. Even if it means he’ll be a _queenslayer_ for the rest of his life.

Because in all truth, how bad can that be? Arya wears the title like a badge of honour these days. She has no qualms whatsoever about what she’s done to save her sister, and cares even less about the loss of Cersei Lannister as a whole.

So why should Jon feel terrible about ending the life of the person who destroyed almost an entire kingdom?

He will make sure that whatever reign of terror Daenerys has in mind, the world will never see it come to fruition.

“Rider!” Someone shouts from the front of the lines. Sure enough, the galloping of a horse begins to come closer and Ser Davos immediately recognizes the scout they sent out this morning.

“What is it, son?” He asks when the young man approaches.

“We’ve spotted the remains of…well, I think you ought to decide for yourself.” The scout replies.

Ser Davos merely poses Jon a silent question with his expression.

“Take us to it.” he answers.

 It’s not actually very far from where they are now. Just a mile or so further south and then a little off the road.

As to what it is…

“This is a massacre. -” Ser Jaime replies. “- I’ve seen this before. Seen what that _woman_ can do. These are the remains of an army that fought her dragon.”

Jon unmounts, and now that the suggestion has been made, he can clearly see the bones and the metal and the worn leather that must’ve once been warriors.

There are so many bodies, scattered over the barren landscape.

Ser Jorah wastes very little time before getting himself in the middle of the massive grave. He carefully examines the remains and shuffles around in what might have been a coat once.

Something comes clanking out from underneath it.

He lifts it up into what little sunlight isn’t blocked by dusty air.

It’s a sword.

A curved sword.

“An Arakh.” Grey Worm breathes.

“These are the Dothraki.” Ser Jorah swallows, his fingers running gently over the weapon.

“Wait? Are you sure? All of them?” Brienne asks.

“I…I don’t know.” He replies.

“I doubt any of them would’ve survived if they were chased by Drogon like that.” Jon tells them.

“But why? -” Gendry butts in. “- I thought they liked their Dragon Queen?”

That’s a fair question actually, because it makes no sense. Here lie the only men who left the North for Daenerys. They’ve always been attuned to her, one way or another.

It’s in moments like these that Jon wishes he was as good at guessing motives as Sansa is.

Because there has to be a reason for…for something like this, right?

Jon crouches down in front of a pile of bones. Tries to figure out who it once was, what it might have been. The clothes have been scorched away almost completely. There’s only a few raggedy scraps of a Northern cloak hanging underneath three of the ribs.

“Perhaps they thought they could defeat her. Take her place and -” Ser Jaime starts.

“No. -” Ser Jorah replies immediately. “- No, they wouldn’t do that. Whatever you may think of them, these men were loyal to their Khaleesi. They followed her across the narrow sea.”

“So why did she attack them?” Tormund shoots back.

“Perhaps Drogon disobeyed her, perhaps it was his decision, not hers.”

But that doesn’t seem right. Jon knows the bond he created with Rhaegal, and the one she has with Drogon is like that, but more intimate, spanning across years.

“If the Dothraki wouldn’t betray her, then neither would Drogon.”

He would do what she’d tell him to do. Of that, Jon is entirely sure.

“There must be a reason for this…” Ser Jorah’s voice trembles and Jon surely feels for him. He’s spent so many years by her side. From what Jon’s heard he was almost a part of the Dothraki horde at the beginning of it all.

He travelled with her across Essos. Sought to cure himself from a deadly disease for her.

In the end, it was his family that tore him away from her. Or perhaps she tore herself away from him. Either way, had the odds changed ever so slightly, Jon has no doubt that Ser Jorah’s body would be amongst these men now.

“We could bury them. Or at least try.” Jon offers. A gesture of goodwill for Jorah, a decency the Dothraki deserve, even if he never cared for them while they lived.

“To what end? We are already standing in the biggest graveyard of Westeros.” Jorah turns his face away from the others.

“He is right. We do not need a burial. We need answers.” Grey Worm adds.

“Well, there’s only one place where we’ll find those.” Brienne’s eyes are fixed on the South. Towards the unseen King’s Landing, hiding somewhere in the mists of ash.

That it seems, is the only order the men need to move forward.

They continue onwards and don’t stop to eat or to rest. Not even after night has fallen. There’s no water here. No resources, so the only means to keep themselves alive are the ones they brought with them and they are finite. If they spend too much time in this place, they’ll be left starving.

Thankfully, it only takes a few more hours before they reach Hayford castle.

It’s a ruin.

Just like everything else.

A few brave men go out to see if the stream by the castle still holds water, which, much to their surprise, it does. It even looks relatively clean, but when one of them dares to put it in his mouth, he spits it out mere seconds later.

It tastes wrong. Like an alchemical mixture. Like poison.

They leave the place and the dead to their unending rest.

From here on out, Brienne informs him, it will only be half a day’s worth of riding to get to the Capital. It won’t be long now, come morning, they’ll be able to see the towers of the Red Keep. If there are any left.

The darkness doesn’t bother Jon. Hasn’t since those long days in Winterfell, when the Night King was still looming over them. What bothers him is the cloth over his nose and mouth. The stale air. The poisoned water. The blackened trees.

If, Gods help him, the people do put him on the Iron Throne, Jon wouldn’t know how to start _fixing_ this. How to undo any of this.

_How long will these Deadlands remain dead?_

“Dragon’s Gate! We’ve found Dragon’s Gate!” The scouts call out not long after sunrise.

In hindsight, Jon should’ve wondered what they meant by that, because you don’t really ‘find’ a gate to King’s landing. The enormous archways should speak for themselves.

When they finally do arrive, that turns out to be true still. But the kingsroad has snowed over and the ‘gate’ part of Dragon’s Gate is gone. All that remains is a wall of molten stone. There’s a rough shape of a Dragon’s wing hiding somewhere at the top, but that’s all.

There is no entrance to the city here.

“Do we…do we scale it?” Tormund asks, giving the structure several curious glances.

“Not every wall needs to be climbed.” Jon replies, and starts steering his horse towards the left.

With everything that’s been destroyed, he refuses, _refuses,_ to believe that the walls have been left standing completely.

There must be a way in.

One gate that has survived.

One section of stones that collapsed on themselves.

“There! -” He shouts back. “- There’s our way in!”

One of the larger buildings that must’ve stood close to the edge of the city has been knocked over against the wall, leaving quite a gap in its wake.

The stones beneath it are almost smooth, like a dried-up liquid, which makes it easy for them to cross on foot.

The horses, though. They’ll have to wait here, lest they want them to break their legs. A selection of the men will stay behind. After all, there’s no threat now. Not when they know the Dothraki are already dead and the dragons haven’t been seen since leaving Brindlewood.

The rest of them press on to climb the steps of King’s Landing.

Well, to climb the steep hill of rubble it’s now become.

Jon’s not sure what bricks were laid in the City Walls and the Red Keep, but they are evidently vastly stronger than whatever the rest of the city is made of.

Because the Red Keep is already visible the moment they’ve passed through their hole in the wall.

It’s still there.

Nothing else is.

When he looks at his men, at Ser Davos, Ser Jaime, Brienne and the rest of their group, Jon wonders which is better, to never have seen King’s Landing and not know what to miss. Or to be able to recall the supposed splendour of it despite the destruction.

But it’s not just the Keep, rising up from the landscape. There is something else too. Large mounds sat in the distance.

The ash winds make it impossible to tell what it is at first.

Whatever it is, though, it’s laid out in front of the Keep.

“Keep moving!” Jon shouts at everyone, before taking the lead.

And with every step he takes, more and more dread begins to settle in his stomach.

He doesn’t know King’s Landing well enough to say anything about the architecture, but what he does know is that he hasn’t been able to reach Rhaegal for days now.

That Drogon hasn’t been seen either.

That even monsters might seek out their mother in times of dire need.

After all, Jon had always wished to, and he didn’t even know who she was back then.

“Are those…?” Brienne breathes when they get closer. But Jon doesn’t have the heart to tell her that yes. Yes, they are.

The mounds are not mounds.

As a child Jon had always envisioned dragons as being fearsome but beautiful, almost immortal and impossibly strong. Legends. Myths. Practically divine in their own way.

He had not envisioned them as nothing more than two unmoving and decrepit bodies.

His feet take him to Rhaegal on instinct. He never truly liked the creature, simply because it was something so completely _other_ to him, but he knew it. He’d come to understand it. Had learned what made it into the beast it had become.

It was, in a sense, his.

An echo of his worst instincts and most frightening ideas.

His hand glides over the scales of a maimed tail. Then moves on to touch a belly that is no longer moving with the slow and heaving inhales it once possessed. A little later, it passes over a crushed chest, with plates of armour still hanging from it. 

A neck that is missing large chunks of meat. Meat that could have been his own. A head that is bent at a wholly wrong angle. Eyes that are poised downwards, looking at nothing.

He could not reach Rhaegal.

Because Rhaegal is dead.

Cannot have lived long after his impact to the ground, if he even lasted that long to begin with. And yet…

He’s dreamed of the dragon. Has seen glimpses of it, hiding behind some sort of veil. An impenetrable and clouded thing that he can’t name.

_You did not deserve such a terrible fate._

The thought comes unbiddenly to mind. He’s spent many a night on the road considering what they were meant to do with Rhaegal after the war with Daenerys would end. He didn’t think he’d be able to kill the beast.

Not after what it had done for them.

Instead, he had thought about sending it far North. To a place so wild it might just befit a dragon. Or perhaps to the east, to Essos. To the remains of Valyria where it might belong.

Turns out, those thoughts have all been in vain.

Because Rhaegal is gone.

Taken by the talons and the teeth of his brother. Drogon. The one who had never given his brothers any sort of mercy.

The one who lies a bit further out.

Another mound.

A _moving_ mound.

Rhaegal might be dead, but Drogon isn’t.

He clearly cannot get up. The odd angle of his legs and wings suggest that he’s broken them when he plummeted down to earth. And while he might still be breathing, there are wounds covering his torso, no doubt Rhaegal’s work.

Jon carefully circles the beast.

“Stay back! -” He tells the others. “- An injured dragon is still a dangerous one.”

Although the state of Drogon’s head easily belies Jon’s words. Sure, most of the forehead and the and the nose and eyes are fine, but the lower jaw…

Well, there is _no_ lower jaw.

He remembers Rhaegal tearing at it, but had not realized how successful he may have been. There are  a few teeth left in the top row, but there’s only a hole beneath it, chewed out and tore open. The gland that was once used to spit fire is no longer there. Rhaegal must’ve known, would’ve known how to incapacitate his brother so he would no longer be a threat.

A wheezing rumble comes from the beast.

A cry for help if Jon has ever heard it.

And it enrages him.

What did Rhaegal sound like whenever Drogon would bully him? What did he sound like when the beast had torn at his wings and his body? What had he sounded like seconds before crashing into the wreckage of the city?

Jon draws Longclaw.

If anyone asks him afterwards, for the years to come, he’ll tell them that what he did was a mercy. That the dragon, in its forlorn state, would not have lived either way.

They will not question him.

But it isn’t mercy that moves his feet forward. It isn’t mercy that wills him to approach Drogon’s still moving eye.

It isn’t mercy that drives his hand upwards.

And it definitely isn’t mercy that leads him to plunge Longclaw deep into the red and orange eye.

It is Fire and Blood. Nothing more and nothing less.

Drogon screeches, but cannot struggle.

There’s a spasm or two.

And then, just like that, the last of the dragons has died.

Jon takes the cloth off his nose and mouth for just a moment. Just to breathe in the ruined and burnt air. Whatever threat these creatures may have posed once…

It’s done.

The kingdoms are safe from them.

All of them.

The force that destroyed the Crownlands is gone, all that remains now is judgement for the woman who gave the order.

And she will, without a doubt, be found straight ahead. Through the empty archways of the Red Keep.

He looks to Tormund and Sam, to Ser Davos and Gendry, to Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne, to Grey Worm and to Ser Jorah.

“Let’s get this over with.”

The path to the throne room seems almost dreamlike. While the walls of the Red Keep are still standing, the roof has been mostly blown off, flakes of ash still falling down upon them. The innards are not much more than a dead labyrinth, and only the steel braziers and the stone pillars have survived the blast.

Everyone has their sword drawn, and while Jon is almost certain that there’s not much to fear beyond this point, he leads the men himself. Doesn’t let them get ahead of him.

Whatever lies at the centre of the destruction, it is his responsibility. His and his alone.

As a young girl, Sansa had had a favourite book about the Red Keep. Jon remembers it very well. A compendium of the place with a lot of texts in it. And while he’s sure that Sansa eventually got around to actually reading it when she was older, the letters had not been what caught her attention.

It’d been the vivid drawings of the Red Keep’s Great Hall instead. The painted visions of the glass-stained windows, the impressive tiles, the leaf patterns drawn on the pillars and the complicated swirls of the golden candelabra.

She must’ve shown it to each of them a hundred times. This tiny wisp of a girl, no older than six, that would carry around this big tome day in nad day out.

By the end of her fascination, Jon could conjure up those drawings in his sleep. He’s sure Robb could too.

The haunted Hall they are in now does not resemble those pictures in the least.

The only thing that looks relatively the same is sat at the centre of the room.

_The fabled Iron Throne._

Already heated by dragonfire before, it must not’ve changed much in the blaze.

What has changed however, is the person sitting in it.

“Daenerys.” He finds himself murmuring.

Still, what he says must echo loud enough across the empty space, because she raises her eyes towards them.

When he’d first met Daenerys, she’d been sitting in a throne as well, another throne, granted, but a throne nonetheless. She’d looked composed. Well-groomed. Pretty even, despite the fact that her words had spoiled the beauty mere minutes later.

Now though, in this throne, the one she’s been craving, Daenerys looks nothing like herself. Gone are the expensive dresses and coats. There are mere rags of a white shift left on her body. Her hair is uncombed and rough, her skin is paler than it has ever been before and her feet are bare and bloodied.

“You’re here. You’ve made it here.” Her voice rings clearly across the broken pillars.

“Yes. I have.” Jon reluctantly replies, Longclaw in his hand. Still wet with the blood of her dragon.

“And now you’ll try to take the Seven Kingdoms from me.” She’s shivering.

Jon’s not really sure how he’s supposed to explain this to her.

“Daenerys, I-”

“You can’t. - ” She interrupts. Vigorously shaking her head. “- You can’t! It’s mine. I’ve defeated Cersei. Destroyed her fleet. I’ve destroyed her and every one of her henchmen. It’s no longer hers. I took it. I took what was mine.”

“It’s not -” He wants to tell her that it doesn’t matter anymore. None of it does. But he never gets the chance.

“Yes it is! It is mine. It is my birthright. My claim. You cannot take it from me. You don’t have anyone left. I destroyed your army, just as I destroyed Cersei’s.” She raves at him.

“My army…?” He takes a fleeting glance behind him, where, sure enough, most of his men are still waiting.

“I burned them.” It starts as a whisper.

“I burned them.” She repeats, louder this time.

“I burned them all. I burned them all!” Daenerys screams, but there’s a desperation in her voice. As if at least some part of her understands the massacre she caused.

“You…burned…my army?” Jon tries again. Trying to envision what she could possibly be talking about. As far as they’ve seen there was only one army burned and that was –

_The Dothraki horde._

Who had fled from Winterfell in the depth of night. Wearing the Northern cloaks Sansa had gifted them.

The tatters of which he’d found on one of the bodies.

From up high on dragonback, those riders must’ve looked exactly like a Northern army of knights.

_Oh no, what have you done?_

“We gave your Dothraki our cloaks. You remember that, don’t you? Back in the North? They followed you when you left us. Wearing our cloaks. -”

There’s not a hint of comprehension in Daenerys’s wild and unhinged expression.

“- Your Dothraki were wearing _our_ cloaks. You didn’t burn _my_ army. You burnt yours.”

“No! I didn’t! I burned yours. I burned them all!” She shouts back.

“Look around you! Does it look like my army has been burned?” He raises his voice and holds out his hands, showing the knights that have gathered in the Great Hall.

Daenerys quiets down and looks at her hands.

“I…I…did that? No, I can’t have. I was so sure.” Finally, something like reason begins to penetrate in her voice, but when the truth begins to worm its way back into Daenerys’s head, so does the overwhelming horror and guilt of what she’s done. All of it.

“How could I? I was saving them. I was going…I was going to break the wheel? But instead I…I didn’t mean to. Not _everyone._ But the flames they just kept…getting bigger and bigger and I…I didn’t understand.” She croaks, tears pooling in her eyes, even as they are still looking at a pair of trembling hands.

Jon tries to remind himself that he came here for retribution. To avenge all those who suffered so dearly at her vicious and power-hungry ways.

“I didn’t mean to.-” She sobs, stumbling forwards towards him. “- All the women and children. I didn’t mean to.”

How is he meant to kill her now? He could kill her dragon, but he can’t kill her. Not when she’s little more than a pitiful, lost creature. He came here looking for an enemy. Not a young girl mad with grief.

“Jon…help me. What have I done? I burned them all. I _burned them all._ ”

Daenerys holds up her hands and what can Jon do but take them in his? How can he punish her when she’s clearly not in her right mind? How can he be so cruel as to strike down the woman who loves him, even when he has no love for her?

He simply can’t do it.

“It’s alright. -” Jon susses “- We can…we can take you somewhere and then we’ll talk about-”

She gasps.

Her hands tighten minutely around his, only to go completely slack afterwards.

The tip of a blade is piercing out from her chest. Red blood spreading out on the tattered shift.

Daenerys collapses. Her hands slipping out of his.

Behind her, in the shadow of the throne, stands Ser Jaime Lannister.

“Like father, like daughter.” He tells Jon, voice hollow. Eyes blank and unfocused.

By all rights, Jon thinks he ought to be angry with him. This Kingslayer who just slayed a queen. He disobeyed his orders. He defied his king. He took a life that should not have been his to take.

And yet, all Jon feels is an unspeakable relief.

A gratefulness that the choice has been taken from him.

From the corner of his eyes, he can see Brienne stepping past him, past the body of Daenerys to get to Jaime. He sees her trying to gently and ever so carefully pry the sword from Jaime’s shaking hands. Hears her soft words of encouragement in the distance.

But still, the only thing he can gaze at is the blood that pours onto the ashes, staining it red. Her blood. _His_ blood. The last of the Targaryens is dead.

All that is left now is him.

Jon Snow.

No-one else.

Ser Jorah comes to cradle the body. To carry it outside. He briefly wonders if the man intends to burn her. If that would even work, but then, an arm finds its way around his shoulder.

He can hear Sam’s voice and thinks that the man might be talking to him at first, but when the knights start moving all around them, he realizes it must’ve been an order to them instead.

“What do we do now?” Gendry’s question is the first thing that pierces through the haze in mind, and while’s he probably talking to Ser Davos, Jon finds that he wants to answer this himself. That he needs to.

“That. -” Jon speaks up, probably on the side of too loud, and points at the throne. “- Destroy that. Carve it up into pieces and throw it amongst the rubble outside.”

“Are you…are you sure about that?” Sam blinks.

“Yes. Too many people have died for that fucking thing. No-one will again. Do you hear me? No more dragons. No more Fire and Blood. No more Iron Throne. That’s done now.”

“Well, sounds good to me.” Gendry nods, already pulling out his hammer.

And as the swords are ripped apart one by one, Jon can feel his heart slot back into the place where it belongs. They will go back to Riverrun, they’ll decide what to do next and then a few years from now, they’ll go to Winterfell.

They will rebuild.

They will repair.

And this damage, whatever it is, holds no measure to the strength that lives within his family. His people. That strength will live in them forever, he’s sure, even when they themselves are long gone.

 


	27. A Way Forward

“Goodbye!” Shireen is almost hanging out of the window, waving at Lord Royce down below at the drawbridge.

“Bye!” Gilly shouts, just a little bit louder.

And while the knights are marching out of the gate, Lord Royce’s lips quirk into a smile as he briefly waves up to them.

“Farewell!” Shireen yells, trying to shout over Gilly.

“So Long!” Gilly bellows, completely overruling Shireen before both of them collapse into giggles.

And even as they’re sat there, underneath the windows, laughing until their bellies hurt, Shireen thinks there’s an odd sort of sadness to this.

The Knights of the Vale are returning to…well, the Vale. The enemies they set out to defeat are gone and it’s time for them to head back home. They are the first of many to do so, Shireen wagers, because Riverrun cannot keep all five armies, not by a longshot.

Still, Shireen has promised herself that she’ll write to Lord Royce. After all, he’d kept her safe during those first scary days after the arrival of Daenerys.

In fact, she intends to write everyone, which means she’ll probably never have to leave her study again.

Funny, if her father and mother had wanted to keep her indoors, they should’ve just let her make friends with people from all over Westeros.

_And Essos._

She thinks when Missandei wanders into the solar. She looks up from her scrolls and blinks twice, taking in Shireen and Gilly, still on the floor, giggling like children.

“I see that the parting of the knights is a bittersweet moment for the two of you.” She raises an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry. -” Gilly hoists herself up, and helps Shireen in the process. ”- It’s just a relief, you know. That we can wish them a safe journey home, rather than watch them be burned or be buried.”

“I’ll agree to that.” Missandei sits down at her desk. Laying out the messages they’ve received from across the kingdoms.

She’s been gathering them, taking stock of the opinions of Westeros. Because they have to figure out what to do next and they’d really rather like to do so with the least amount of opposition from the populace.

The work is temporary, though. Eventually, Shireen is sure they’ll find a compromise that will suit everyone best, and then they’ll work their way from there.

“Have you decided what you want to do after this?” She peeks over Missandei’s shoulder, inadvertently skimming over a scroll from Oldtown. The maesters, it seems, are wholly neutral about the ideas posed.

“No, not yet.” Missandei hums.

“You could still be a seamstress if you wanted to. -” Gilly tells her. “- your needlework is much better than mine by now.”

“That would be noble profession, sure.” She seems to consider it.

“But…?” Shireen tries, because there is doubt hiding in her friend’s eyes.

“But I also enjoy this. -” She motions at the scrolls on her desk. “- listening to the people, rather than just translating and announcing.”

“I reckon we could use plenty of that in the years to come.” Gilly nods, because overhauling the Seven Kingdoms will be no small task indeed.

Which is something they’re setting out to do, because once the army had returned from the Deadlands, it’d been decided that things would be different from now on.

Shireen isn’t sure what happened there, because the men, and Brienne, are staying fairly mum about it. The only things that are being said is that the Dragons are gone, the Iron Throne is gone, Daenerys is dead and it’s very unadvisable to go look for any of them in the harsh environment that was once King’s Landing.

So, to sum it up:

The Night King in the North is gone.

The Dragon Queen in the South is gone.

And now, they’ll be replaced by a new King in the North and a new Queen in the South. The Realm will become two Realms, with six kingdoms divided amongst them.

The North, The Riverlands and the Vale will become one.

The Reach, The Stormlands and the Westlands will become another.

Jon will rule one from Winterfell, Shireen will rule the other from Highgarden.

And that’s a daunting prospect if she’s ever heard one. There have been many talks between her and Jon, from the early morning to the late night, wherein both have lamented that they really don’t _want_ to do this but that everyone else seems to think they should do it and therefore they’d best get on with it.

Thankfully though, they are far from alone in their endeavour. Ser Davos will stay with Shireen, that much he’s promised already. And Gendry will stay too. Which, in turn means that Arya had sighed and said that perhaps she’d ought to give the south a chance as well. Even Missandei and Grey Worm have decided to stay, much to Shireen’s delight.

Jon, in turn, will have Sansa standing next to him. Obviously and always. Furthermore, Gilly and Sam will head back North by the end of winter too. And Shireen thinks that that will be a difficult goodbye indeed. Likewise, Tormund, Brienne and Jaime will go too. Despite the fact that Ser Jaime still has to figure out what to do with his ancestral home.

The notion right now seems to be ‘anything, so long as he doesn’t ever have to set foot in it again’.

 And then there’s Bran…

Of all the people she’ll have to say goodbye to, Shireen thinks that that might be the hardest one yet. Because over the course of her stay at Winterfell she’s somehow grown terribly attached to him. First as the Three Eyed Raven and then later as Bran himself.

He’s just so…

It’s hard to explain.

They’ll still write to one another when they’re on the other sides of Westeros but it just won’t be the same. It’ll not be _enough._

Somehow.

The thought alone drives all giggles and happiness from her, and with a deep sigh, Shireen decides to leave Missandei and Gilly to their own business. They notice her sombre mood, but don’t try to ask her what seems to be awry. And for that, Shireen is ever so grateful.

And while they begin to sort out the scrolls, she lets her feet wander through the hallways of Riverrun, straight to Bran’s study.

Because, well, if he is to leave, then she might as well spend time with him now, before they can’t anymore.

When she knocks on the door, there’s a distracted “Come in.” and when she opens it, Florys immediately trots up to her, licking her ear.

She does that a lot nowadays, because while she might not be quite as big as Ghost, she’s still a full grown direwolf and can almost look Shireen straight in the eye when standing next to her.

“Silly girl.” Shireen snorts, gently pulling the snout away from her.

Florian, ever the serene one, doesn’t come up to greet her. Instead, his ears merely perk up, looking at Shireen with a questioning look in his eyes.

Behind him is Bran, sat at the large table in the centre of the room. She might call it a desk because of the books and the parchments scattered on it, but the sheer size of it suggest that it was probably a dining table once.

Dotted across the mess of paper are little vials and pots of samples. Stuff the army brought back from the Deadlands and although neither of them is a maester per se, both Sam and Bran have been trying to make sense of them. Trying to figure out how they can bring life back to a barren landscape.

There’s water from blackwater rush, ash and dirt from the area surrounding it, bricks that were once a part of the buildings in King’s landing and a bunch of twigs that belonged to the trees of the city.

He seems to be studying those especially.

“Hello.” He greets, smiling at her when she approaches.

“How’s the work going? Anything there?” Shireen asks, swallowing down her sadness.

“Hm. I think so. - ” he motions her to come closer and then holds up one of the blackened twigs. “- see this?”

He easily snaps the stick between his fingers.

“Yes?” She replies.

“Now watch this.” He picks up another twig and makes the same motion, but rather than breaking, the twig just slightly bends.

“Huh. Is it…?”

“It’s not dead. That other branch is dry and shrivelled up from the inside out, but this one is still alive. It’s been out there for months and it still survived.” Bran studies the two of them intently.

“That’s amazing. How is that possible?” She moves closer to him in order to find the difference between the two.

“This one? -” He holds up the broken twig. “- regular tree.”

Then, he holds up the living twig.

“This one? Weirwood.” He grins.

“No! Really? The heart tree survived?”

“Well, in part. The impact of the blast obviously shattered the tree itself, but the pieces didn’t die. I’m hoping not all roots were unearthed either. And if they haven’t…’ Bran poses.

“The tree might grow again.” Shireen smiles.

“It _might._ There’s still a question on the toxic qualities of the earth, though. With the remnants of wildfire everywhere I’m not sure if the tree won’t be poisoned in the long run.” He hums.

“Well, how do we find that out?”

“We wait and see. I suppose. Plant a few saplings at the edge of the Deadlands and then further in again and again until we reach King’s Landing. That way we can see where they’ll live and where they’ll die.” Bran shrugs.

“You want to plant trees in winter?” she gives him a puzzled look.

“No, it’ll have to wait until spring.”

_Oh._

_Spring._

When he isn’t here anymore but far North, back in Winterfell, instead.

“I suppose you’ll have to leave us some notes, then. For when you’ve gone home.” Shireen murmurs, heart sinking at the thought.

“Actually.-” Bran starts. “- I’m not sure I will be. Going home that is.”

“You’re not?” She tries not to sound too hopeful.

“It’s just…the things that have happened there. The horrible things I’ve seen and done as the Three Eyed Raven…I’ve been dreading it for a while now. Staying in the south feels better, somehow.”

Well, Shireen can really only agree to that.

“So stay!” She shouts, just a tad too fast.

“Really?” Bran asks, a small smile appearing on his face.

“Yes! Come with us to Highgarden. We’ll have a big library and I hear they have not one but _three_ heart trees that you can study and we’ll bring Arya and Gendry and Missandei and -”

“Alright, alright. I’ll go with you. -” He laughs. “- Now, shoo. I have to finish writing this and if you’re here I’ll not get anything done.”

Which, that’s fine. Shireen can leave him be for a while now. They’ll have all the time in the world to do things later.  After all, he’s staying here.

“Do you want me to take Florys with me?” Because their grey lady is anxiously bouncing around for a chance to go outside.

“Sure. Take Florian too. He might feign dignity but he’s been just as eager for a run as she is.”

It’s hard to tell with him, but once Bran has said the word, Florian smoothly gets up from his spot by the table and wanders over to the door.

Shireen is almost up and out of the room before she remembers how happy she is. How happy she’s _going_ to be even after they say goodbye and leave Riverrun behind. Because Bran is not going anywhere. Within an instant, she turns around and almost runs back to the table.

In a move that surprises both Bran and herself, Shireen swiftly places a short kiss on his cheek.

“We are going to plant some trees, you and I.” She blurts out, before quickly turning around and taking the direwolves outside with a red face and a giddy heart.

* * *

 

The cut of the linen fabric is huge. So much so that Sansa has had to roll it up for now, because it won’t do to have the whole length of it lying around the Solar while she’s only working at the edge.

Gods forbid, Bael might get ideas.

He’ll have to get past his brother and sister first, though, because Jonquil is lying by the side of her chair and Symeon is lying _on top_ of her feet, keeping them nice and warm.

Either way, she’s got it all planned out. She knows what she’s going to embroider on every inch of her canvas. It’ll be a project to get her through the winter, and perhaps even a small part of spring.

Nine direwolves lying and standing side by side, the snowy background of the North on one end and the lush landscape of the South on the other.

She’ll start off with Symeon, Bael, Jonquil and Ghost on the northern side and put Florys, Florian, Rowan and Shella on the southern side.

In the middle she’s going to put Nymeria, because truly, without her, none of the pups would’ve made it to them in the first place.

She might need Arya’s help in getting the colours of her fur just right, though. The others are here, she can see theirs whenever she likes, but for Nymeria, she doesn’t want her own memories clouding up the embroidered cloth.

“Are we really sure that this is a good idea?” Jon asks her from where he’s standing by the hearth.

“hmhm.” Sansa hums her assent now. Because she gave him a well-thought out answer the last three times he’d asked that same question and she’s not going to do it again.

“I mean, he’s got a spotty past at best and -”

She looks up from her needlepoint and raises her eyebrow.

“Right. Right. More good than bad. Hard to find someone who doesn’t have a spotty past nowadays.” Jon admits.

There, much better, perhaps she can focus on her work now.

“Gods, I just wish we could keep Ser Davos.” He mutters.

_I guess not._

“The man can’t split himself in two, Jon. Besides, he’s got the experience. Shireen is going to need that more than we do.”

Not to mention Bran and Arya, who could use a bit of guidance when they’re out there in the South by themselves.

Or well, not by themselves, but…away from Sansa and away from Winterfell.

It’s a very strange idea that a few years from now, when winter is over, her two remaining siblings won’t move back home with her.

Although, it _is_ the natural progression of things, she supposes. If everything hadn’t gone so terribly wrong in their lives then Sansa would’ve married a Lord and lived with him in one castle while Arya would’ve married a lord and lived with him in another castle. As the younger brothers, Bran and Rickon might’ve settled on another piece of land in the north or perhaps they would’ve chosen to go to Oldtown instead. Robb would’ve been the Lord of Winterfell and would’ve lived there instead of them.

And Jon?

Jon would’ve spent his whole life living at the Wall. By himself.

So, really, Sansa thinks she prefers the state of affairs as they are now. At least this way, she can get used to the idea that in a few years Bran and Arya won’t be sleeping a few corridors away from her anymore.

Having said that, if any of the Old Gods are thinking of resurrecting some more people, she’d really rather like to volunteer Robb and Rickon for the position.

“What if he says no?” Jon pipes up again.

“He won’t say no.” Sansa replies.

“How do you know that?” Her answer seems to pique his interest, leading him away from the hearth to kneel down in front of her chair.

“Someone told me that he feels a tremendous responsibility to the people nowadays.” She tells him a little smugly, grin growing on her face.

“That someone being Lord Varys?” Jon smiles back at her, and their noses are almost touching now.

“Perhaps.” She teases.

It was in fact Lord Varys, but she’s not going to tell him that.

“Well, then maybe you should be the one to have this talk with him.” he shoots back, batting those ridiculous eyelashes of his.

“I’m _not_ the King in the North.”

“No, but you’ll be the Queen in the North soon enough.” Every time he says it, there’s a twinkle in his eyes. Every time. Without exception.

His proposal to her had not been some grand, knightly gesture. No loud announcement to all the kingdoms in Westeros. Instead, it’d been a soft whisper in the dark. Which had suited her just fine.

It’d happened after he’d come home from his battle in the Deadlands. It’d been late. Very late. The entirety of Riverrun had already gone to sleep. Sansa included. But what he had seen in the ruins of King’s Landing had weighed too heavily on him. On all of them. And so, instead of trying to find his own empty chambers, he’d snuck into hers. Just to see if she was alright, or so he’d claimed, but really, there were four direwolves sleeping around her bed, he could’ve seen she was fine right from the doorway. She’s glad he didn’t though. Glad that he’d made his way through half the pack and that he’d sat down on the empty side of her bed.

The motion had woken her, had given her the opportunity to hug him, even as she wore nothing but her nightshift. Jon being Jon, he’d blushed and apologized profusely. Had wanted to leave. She hadn’t let him. Instead, she’d told him to lie down on top the covers and tell her exactly what was wrong. What had happened.

He’d told her the whole story. Of Rhaegal and Drogon, of a destroyed Red Keep, of a gibbering mad queen, of the burden Jaime had shouldered for him. And then, once he was done, he’d told her that he _couldn’t_ rule all by himself, was afraid of what he might become if he did. Not that Sansa thinks that he could ever be anything like those insane Targaryens. Moreover though, Jon told her that he did not _want_ to rule all by himself. He’d wanted her with him. Truly and without reservations. For as long as they both lived.

She’d agreed and had then told him to go to sleep. Right where he was, in her bed. Scandalous perhaps. But quite a necessary evil, because she doubts that he would’ve gotten any rest if he’d slept somewhere else.

It’s been like that ever since. They share a bed, but nothing untoward has happened. Not yet anyway. Probably won’t until they’re married. Or at least until they’re both ready for something _to_ happen.

Although, that might not take much longer. Not with how coy he’s been lately.

“I’m not a queen yet, though. So, you should probably save your flattery for the man who needs convincing.”

“Damn you, woman.” He scrunches up his nose, but snorts with laughter regardless.

Then, suddenly, Symeon’s ears perk up, and the gesture is enough to show Sansa exactly what’s about to happen.

“Ah, there he is already.” She tells Jon, who gives her a confused look, right up until there’s a knock on the door.

His confusion then turns to nerves, and he quickly scrambles up and to his desk, straightening out his tunic and trying to look like the pompous kind of king he really isn’t.

“Ser Jaime.” He greets their visitor.

“Oh, we’re back to ‘Ser’ now? Very well, _your Grace._ -” Jaime rolls his eyes, before turning to kindly greet her.“-Sansa.”

“Jaime.” She smiles and sets to quietly work on her embroidery once more.

Jon, despite the fact that he dislikes the use of titles, is still hellbent on doing this officially and appropriately.

“How was your journey to Oldstones?”

“As good as it can be? I suppose.” Jaime gives him an odd look. And Sansa doesn’t blame him. There’s been a very informal camaraderie between them ever since they came back from the Deadlands.

Which is to say: Sansa has found them skunk-drunk and crying on the floor of the stables once, while Brienne and Tormund have had the pleasure of dragging both their inebriated arses from the frozen moat. _Twice._

“Your brother’s tomb is coming along as planned, then?” Jon asks, still maintaining his composure.

“I…Alright, what’s going on here?” He looks between Jon and Sansa, waiting for one of them to answer his question.

Sansa’s dearly betrothed though, seems stuck. He’d clearly prepared some sort of speech, which, he really ought to know by now that _preparing_ speeches is not his strong suit. Throwing them out at random when the situation requires it? Yes, Jon’s great at that.

Actually rehearsing them? Not so much.

“Jon has a question he’d like to ask you.” She replies. Hopefully it will set the conversation back in motion.

“Does he now?” Jaime raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, _he_ does. -” Jon deadpans, and there’s the King in the North again. The real one. “- He’d like you to be the Hand of the King, actually.”

“Oh, a hand joke. Hilarious.” Jaime holds up his gold appendage and waves it about.

But Jon is not in a mood for jests. His face remains the picture of neutrality and slowly but certainly, it seems to dawn on Jaime that they’re not making a mockery of him.

“You...this is serious? You want me to be…Wait, what about Davos? Did you dismiss him?” He splutters.

“He’ll stay in the South to serve as Hand to Queen Shireen.”

“Of course the old goat will. So, can’t you ask Samwell Tarly to take the job?”

“Sam will finish his education at Oldtown and will serve the North as a maester.” Jon patiently explains.

“Right. Naturally. Have you tried Brienne? I’m sure she’s far more qualified than I am?” There’s a slight edge of desperation in Jaime’s words.

“We did. She refused and advised me to name you instead.”

“Tormund?” Sansa had no idea Jaime’s voice could produce such a high pitch.

“We asked him. He refused and –”

“And advised you to name me instead. -” Jaime parrots. “- So much for true love, I guess.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I agree with them that you are be the best man for the job.” Jon tries.

“No, you _don’t._ We sat in horseshit together. -” He looks at Sansa again. “- This was your idea, wasn’t it?”

She merely shrugs.

“Look, if you really don’t want to do it, we can ask Jor-” Jon starts.

“No. No. hold on. I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.”

 _No, merely that you intend to complain your way through it._ Sansa thinks to herself, staring at her own needlepoint.

“So, you’ll do it?” There’s a small smile already present on Jon’s face and he’s holding out his hand to shake Jaime’s good one.

“Sure, yes. Fine. Someone ought to do it, and better me than that ridiculous Mormont.” Jaime huffs, accepting Jon’s hand.

“Then let me thank you ahead of time for guarding me from the perils out there. I’m grateful to have a good, strong man like you to protect me.” Jon smirks, tightly holding onto Jaime’s hand.

Sansa, meanwhile, has trouble holding in her own smirk. Jon had explained once, what his first meeting with Jaime Lannister had been like. How condescending he’d been to Jon then, and how dramatically his tune had changed over the years.

“Oh, you absolute twat.” Jaime grins. He clearly remembers it as well.

“Don’t worry, Ser Jaime. I’m sure it will be thrilling and if not…”

“Yes, I know. _It’s_ _only for life._ ” He laughs.

They seal their agreement with smiles and a hug.

And so, Sansa thinks, another stitch on the embroidery of their kingdom has been put in.

They’ve got a king and they’ve got a Hand now too. Soon, a marriage will secure their line for the future. They’ve arranged good relationships with the other Kingdoms and once the weather turns, they’ll set out for the North again. They’ll rebuild their home and they’ll be able to prepare for the next winter to come. And the one after that, and the one after that.

Yes, this will be their masterpiece, she’s sure of it.


	28. A Spring Morning

The sky is a beautiful shade of blue and the sun is shining happily down upon them. So much so, that Shireen has shed her cloak a few hours ago. She spurs her horse on to go a little bit faster. Just enough so she can enjoy that lovely breeze that’s soaring by her hair.

“I think it might rain today.” Bran decides, once they’ve come to a standstill by the side of the road.

This part of the road is sat right at a point where it starts to neatly meander down the beautiful green glen further up ahead, and Shireen thinks she’s never seen such a splendid sight in her life.

Florys and Florian trot up ahead, trying to follow Shella and Rowan in their hunt for…rabbits, maybe?

“You’ve been saying that for well over a fortnight now.” Shireen snorts.

“And to be fair, it has been raining.” He shrugs.

“Yes, but only on the days when you didn’t say it would. Never on the days that you did. You’re really rather terrible at predicting things, did you know that?”

He merely laughs at that.

“Do you think this is a good spot?” Bran’s eyes glide over the flower-filled field around them.

In the distance, Shireen can see the Twins. And while the two towers are still looming over the bridge, she knows that there’s no lord currently living there. It’s a centre for trade now. A gathering place for merchants, for hauling goods between the North and the South.

“It’s perfect.” She breathes.

“Then I suppose we’d best wait for the others to catch up.”

That doesn’t take long. First, it’s Arya and Gendry, barrelling down the kingsroad at a great speed. They must be racing one another again. Well, that’s too bad, because if they had truly wanted finish first, they shouldn’t have taken that ‘break’ by the riverside an hour ago.

Next, the full breadth of their company comes into view. The knights, the servants, the cooks and the maids, as well as the wagons filled with everything they might need. It’s still a bit of a hassle, but it’s the third time that they’re doing this, so by now Shireen thinks that they might’ve ironed most of the creases from the process. Ser Davos is with them, sorting out the what goes where and the who rides with who.

Missandei and Grey Worm are also amongst the people, but it doesn’t take Shireen a lot of time to spot them. They’re riding almost at the front of the group, and Missandei’s bright blue dress makes them particularly recognizable. Besides, the others are prone to make way for the Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock. They may not have been born into nobility, but their reign there has turned the city from an empty set of mines into a thriving fishing port.

The Westerlands had been a gift from Jaime Lannister and it seems he hasn’t regretted the decision yet, because he’s never asked for a compensation of any kind.

Speaking of which, they only have a few hours before their Northern friends are set to arrive here. So, they’d best get on with the preparations. Shireen easily hops off her horse, and two servants come to help Bran down from his and carry him to his chair.

He’s been working quite a bit on the design of it. This latest iteration has wider wheels and a firmer grip that allows Bran to get around easier on grassy fields. Also, he’s been refusing people’s help to push the chair around nowadays, preferring to steer with the wheels themselves. Which means the chair has been made lighter and less ornamental as well.

Also, his arms look great from all the effort he’s put into moving himself about.

Shireen is therefore quite fond of this version of the chair.

But that’s not the point right now. She ought to stop thinking about Bran’s arms, and should start working on getting everything ready. The tents are raised up easily and after the fiasco of the first year, everyone knows how to get the cooking rigs set up properly, without any chance of excessive smoke.

“Did you bring it? Please me tell you didn’t forget it?” Shireen asks the cook.

“For the _fourth_ time, your Grace. Don’t worry, we’ve brought them.”

 _Good._ She thinks. _Good. Can’t miss the most important ingredient._

Once her nerves are settled, she goes out back to the road, to see if there’s any sign of riders from the North.

Missandei is already there, staring out at the empty horizon.

“Do you want to bet that they’ll be late again?” She asks.

“That was just the one time. Plus, we burned the food, so we agreed we wouldn’t speak of it again, remember?” Shireen replies.

“Oh, I remember. Vividly.” Missandei grins now, but she’d been decidedly less pleased when she was coughing through the pillar of smoke that had drifted on the wind.

“They won’t be late. Not this year.”

“And if they are, I suppose it’s not much of a punishment to stay here a little while longer.” She twirls a flower through her delicate fingers.

“Not exactly. No.” Who knew that the Freys had had such a beautiful little paradise tucked away on their lands?

“Rider!” A knight shouts and sure enough, there, in the distance, is moving shape.

Black. If Shireen is right.

And not exactly a horse either. It’s smaller, but not my much, and faster too. Moreover, it’s accompanied by an unbearably loud howling. The sound stirs Shella, Rowan, Florys and Florian from whatever game they were playing and sends them down the road to greet the shape up ahead.

_Bael._

And if that’s Bael, then the others surely won’t be far behind.

“See, -” She tells Missandei. “- not late.”

Now that the wolves have been alerted to the arrival of their sibling, Arya and Grey Worm have stopped their sparring and are gathering with Missandei and Shireen to wait for the Northerners. And by the time the first of the _actual riders_ come into view, Bran, Ser Davos and Gendry have also put down the work they’ve been doing and have joined them.

The first of the riders to be recognized is King Stark himself.

_Stark now. Not Snow._

He’d taken Sansa’s name in marriage, for the sole reason that he did not want his children to be named Snow or Targaryen.

_Stark._

It’s the only name that fits. And Jon looks good with it, Shireen thinks. There’s a tension that’s gone from his shoulders nowadays. Although, he might want to look into shaving that beard at some point.

“Baby Robb!” Arya shouts, running up ahead to the small pony that is hobbling at the left side of the company.

Once they’ve come to a standstill, she easily lifts her little nephew from his saddle and Shireen is once more struck by how much they look alike. The same hair colour, the same large eyes, the same nose. If Shireen didn’t know any better, she might think he was Arya’s son, instead of her sister’s.

“Look at how big you’ve gotten. -” She coos. “- how old are you now? Four?”

“Four and a _half._ ” The boy replies, proudly holding up three fingers.

At the other side of the road, Jon has already unmounted, and so has Jaime. They’re both helping Sansa get out from the carriage behind them, because even those small steps cannot be easy with a belly as large as hers.

With a long sigh, she finally lands on the cobblestones, and Shireen cannot stop herself from heading towards her.

“I was almost afraid you wouldn’t make it.” She tries to hug her around the big belly, which takes a bit of shifting.

“What? And miss our annual celebration? I wouldn’t dream of it.” Sansa replies.

They’d agree to do this every year on the day that the Night King died. The day that they all got their futures back. At first, they’d celebrate at Riverrun of course, but once everyone had slowly started to move away, they decided to pick a place halfway between Winterfell and Highgarden, and that so happens to be quite close to the Twins.

“Shireen!” Gilly squeaks, and she only has to turn around before she’s caught up in another hug.

“Hello! How’ve you been? How are your Sams and how is little Melara and little Duncan?”

Yeah, Gilly and Sam have been…productive. To say the least.

“Fine, fine, fine! They’re all happy and healthy. I took my Sams along with me, but the little ones are with their aunt in White Harbor.”

And that was a clever ploy from Lord Manderly none of them saw coming. What better way to increase the influence of your House than to shelter two lost noblewomen and have one of your sons seduce the youngest one?

Of course, Talla seems very happy with the arrangement, and so does Melessa, so really, who’s complaining?

“I don’t mean to be a burden, but can we sit down somewhere? My back has enjoyed the journey less than I anticipated.” The Queen in the North pipes up and suddenly everyone starts to move about. The horses are tied up by the servants and they all move towards the tables that have been set up in the lush, green grass.

And once they’ve all been seated; the conversations start flowing automatically. She can see Bran talking to Jon and both Sams. Probably about the Deadlands. But maybe just about his new chair, who knows. On the other side, Missandei is speaking to Jaime, trying to get him interested in the affairs of Lannisport, but Shireen already knows he’s going to artfully dodge his way out of that conversation.

Brienne is chatting to Ser Davos. Something about logistics. A shipment of silk set to arrive soon; that’s all Shireen manages to catch. Tormund, Grey Worm and Gendry are reminiscing about their adventures both North and South and are going through their ale at a rather rapid pace. Which Shireen supposes isn’t much of a problem for Tormund or Grey Worm, but her poor cousin might end up with the same headache he had last year. Arya and baby Robb are already subtly trying to steal his mug, though, so who knows, perhaps it won’t be so bad.

Gilly, Shireen and Sansa herself, however, are talking about completely different matters.

“We’ve been getting strange reports from our men up North, beyond the Wall.” Sansa tells her and for a second, Shireen’s heart stops, because the last time _that_ happened…

“Oh, no. Don’t worry, not like that. -” Gilly adds immediately.  “- It’s more…Well, maybe you should tell her.”

“I’m surprised Arya hasn’t told you already, because I’m sure we’ve discussed this when she was with us three months earlier.” Sansa hums.

“But what is it, then?” Because now they’ve caught her interest.

“They’ve been finding rather large footsteps in the snow.”

“Really, really large ones.” Gilly grins.

“What? Giants?” Shireen gasps.

“It’s not impossible that a clan of them hid away for the winter, knowing that the Night King was on his way. And well, now that the threat is gone, they might be thriving again.” Sansa explains.

Something like happiness bubbles up in Shireen’s chest, and in fact, reminds her of a discovery she and Bran have made only recently.

“Oh! Well, if we’re talking about hidden surprises. I might have one for you too.”

“Go on…” Sansa rubs a hand over her belly, but sits up a little straighter regardless.

“You know how we’ve been looking into the Isle of Faces. To find some more weirwoods capable of producing saplings.”

Because gods know that the three singers at Highgarden have seen enough abuse at the hands of Bran. Sure, quite a few of the saplings are growing in the Deadlands, and people are already calling Bran the _re_ builder, but that’s no comparison to the number of saplings that they’ve cut that _haven’t_ thrived there.

“Uhu.” Gilly nods.

“So, recently we found a tiny dagger, lying at the foot of one the heart trees there. And it’s not ancient, but Bran says he recognizes the design of the weapon. It’s a little different of course, but by and large, it looks as if it was made by one of the Children of the Forest.”

“You think there might be Children, on this side of the Wall?” Sansa sounds baffled.

“Yes, actually! There’s been writing on it in Oldtown too. The maesters have speculated over the years that they might still be there.” Shireen must remember to keep breathing every time she talks about this.

“And you want to go and find them?” Gilly asks, sticking a grape in her mouth.

“Maybe. I think? We’re hoping they could help us with our restoration of the Deadlands.”

“That would be quite a shock for the populace, seeing the Children walking around in Highgarden.” Sansa muses, and Shireen has to agree with her, it would be quite the spectacle.

Their luncheon passes like that, with food, drinks and conversation aplenty. Afterwards, Jon, Arya, baby Robb, Gendry, as well as Grey Worm and little Sam go out onto the grassy fields, practicing their swordsmanship with wooden branches. The direwolf pack, all eight of them, have long since burned up their energy and are lazing about further back.

Surprisingly enough, Davos is there too. He’s taking a nap of his own in the warm sunlight, and the wolves have sort of gathered around him while he slept.

That’ll be a fun way to wake up, Shireen imagines.

Missandei is teaching Gilly and Brienne how to make a crown of flowers, something she’s picked up during her time in the South. So, they’re sitting out in the field as well.

Meanwhile Bran is playing cards with Jaime. They’re both cheating, Shireen can already tell. But it doesn’t matter, because Bran has nothing to gloat about. He’s lost seventeen games to Shireen since they left Highgarden. Tormund is watching both of them, but doesn’t seem to quite understand what they’re doing yet. Luckily for him, Samwell is there to explain the game to him.

Shireen decides to stay with poor Sansa, who is still sat at the table, because carrying a babe is exhausting work and she needs a moment to just lean back in her chair and rest.

“So, how’s the betrothal going?” Sansa singsongs.

“It’s going. -” Shireen singsongs back. “- There’s so much planning to do. Everyone expects a big pompous wedding, but in all truth, Bran and I have spoken about doing just a simple ceremony with all of you at the Three Singers and leave it at that.”

“Diplomatically speaking, I should tell you that the smallfolk love it when their kings and queens marry. But personally, my favourite wedding was the least decorated one.” And Sansa should know. She’s had _three_ of them.

Although Shireen thinks that the last one would’ve won out either way, because that was the one time she married a man she actually _wanted_ to marry.

It was a quick wedding, Shireen remembers, not long in the aftermath of defeating the Dragon Queen. There hadn’t been much resources for any large festivities, and the ones they did have were kept aside to last them through the winter.

Not that it dampened the atmosphere in any way.

“We might do something for the common folk afterwards. To appreciate their support of us.”

“That might work too.” Sansa admits.

“How’s the trade with the Greyjoy fleet going?” Shireen decides now might be a good time to change the subject.

“Difficult, but not impossible. -” She starts. “- they’ve been driving up the prices every time they come back from Essos, but at least the goods arrive now. What about you?”

“Well, Missandei has re-established contacts with Slavers Bay. We’re thinking about financially supporting merchants who _don’t_ trade in people and maybe give them an upper hand in abolishing whatever is left of the practice. It’s going slow but steady for now.”

“That sounds promising.” Sansa nods, seemingly impressed by their plans.

“Speaking of trade…” Shireen says, shooting a quick glance at the cook. He gives her a nod.

The plan is ready!

“Yes?” Sansa raises an eyebrow.

“Did I tell you that we’ve been talking to Dorne again?”

“Really, the Martells?” She asks.

“No, they’ve sadly died out. But the Daynes have taken over their Lands. So, we’ve been working on a trade agreement with them, and you know, in the process I was able to acquire some very exotic fruits.” Shireen is actually very proud of this little feat.

“Have you now?” Sansa smiles, clearly noting that this is going somewhere.

“Yes. And I’ve asked our cooks to prepare us something quite special.-” She hops off her chair and goes to pick up the platter that was set up for her by the cook.”- See, they’ve only been able to properly harvest these in Dorne this year, so this is actually the first batch that’s been made since Winter begun.”

She puts the platter down on the table and watches as Sansa’s eyes grow large, before she bursts out in laughter.

“Lemon cakes!? Truly? Oh, you wonderful girl.”

“Truly!” Shireen grins and hands her the first of the cakes.

The spend the rest of the afternoon like that. Chatting, eating cakes, watching everyone around them and reminiscing about times they’d rather not relive.

Now, Shireen doesn't often think of her father's priestess these days. after all, Melisandre had only ever sought to instil fears into her.

A fear of the dark, a fear of the light. A fear of ice and a fear of fire. A fear of certainties and a fear of prophecies.

The list goes on and on.

But after defeating a Night King and a Dragon Queen, after coming face to face with the Children of the Forest and the Northern direwolves themselves, Melisandre's words don't mean much anymore.

Because really, what is there left to fear now?

Shireen’s eyes drift upwards towards the sky. There's a set of ravens flying there. Three of them to be exact, playfully swooping and dancing around one another.

Sure, there might be strange, inexplicable things hiding at the corners of the world and there will always be another winter to come, but not all of those odd things are terrible and spring will forever be right around the corner.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, boys and girls, that's it! Thank you, everyone who's read this through to the end! I love you all and I hope you've enjoyed this. And of course, I hope we'll all have a good time watching Season 8 in a couple of days (and if not, well, then I'm just going to cry over a bucket of ice-cream and reread this story again). 
> 
> Also! For anyone who's interested, the closest thing to a soundtrack this story has is probably Ascension by Miracle of Sound, mostly because the lyrics fit Jon and Sansa so well, and because I've been listening to it almost non-stop while writing this. It can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RxmX-CQ1f0E and the male voice describes Jon's journey, while the female one describes Sansa's. For Shireen, the song that would fit her the most is Play My Darling Play by Katzenjammer and it can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VUHq1v_UihU 
> 
> And now that this is done, I'm going to start putting the final touches on the Sansa Stark costume I'll be wearing at my country's biggest Con on Saturday...
> 
> AHAHAHHAA, this fandom has consumed my life. 
> 
> Send help.


End file.
